“What?” I thought I’d misheard.
“Baptized,” Las repeated, looking at the road. “All right, isn’t it? We can get baptized?”
“Who are ‘we’?” I asked, just to be on the safe side.
“Others!”
“Of course we can,” I answered. “That’s, like, that’s . . . a spiritual matter. Magic’s magic, and faith . . .”
Las suddenly started talking nineteen to the dozen.
“I just thought—the devil only knows what they’ll make of me practicing magic . . . I always used to be an agnostic—a broad-profile ecumenist, that is—but then I thought . . . better get baptized, to make completely sure.”
“There was this character in The Simpsons: to make completely sure, he observed the Sabbath day and performed the Salat too,” I remarked, unable to resist the jibe.
“Don’t blaspheme,” Las said strictly. “I’m serious . . . I found this church especially for it, in the Moscow region. They say all the priests in Moscow are corrupt. But in the provinces they’re closer to God. I phoned them yesterday and had a talk—well, some acquaintances recommended me—they promised to baptize me today, but then Gesar gave me this assignment . . .”
“You’re moving kind of fast,” I said doubtfully. “Are you really ready for the sacrament of baptism?”
“Of course,” Las laughed. “I’ve bought a cross, and a Bible just in case, and a couple of icons . . .”
“Hang on, hang on,” I said, starting to get interested. We’d just come out onto Leningrad Chaussee and started burning up the road to the airport. Las usually put the “escort” spell on his car, and people had started hastily making way for us. I don’t know which drivers saw what—for some it was an ambulance, for some a police car with its siren wailing, for some a government escort vehicle with blinking lights hung all over it, like some chicken-brain techie with his mobile phones—but they all cleared the road for us pretty smartly.
“And have you learned off the creed?”
“What creed?” Las asked in surprise.
“The Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed!”
“Do I have to?” Las asked anxiously.
“Never mind, the priest will explain,” I said, beginning to feel really amused. “Have you bought a baptismal robe?”
“What for?”
“Well, when you climb out of the font . . .”
“They only immerse infants in the font—I’m not going to climb into it! They splash the water on grown-ups!”
“You numbskull,” I said emphatically. “They have special fonts, for adults. They’re called baptisteries.”
“Is that what the Baptists have?”
“It’s what they all have.”
Las started pondering—thankfully, driving an automobile with the “escort” spell on it didn’t require truly intense concentration.
“But what if there are dames there?”
“They’re not dames anymore, they’re Sisters in Christ!”
“You’re putting me on!” Las exclaimed indignantly. “That’s enough, Anton!”
I took out my mobile, thought for a second, and asked: “Which of our guys do you trust?”
“In spiritual matters?” Las asked. “Well . . . I’d trust Semyon . . .”
“He’ll do,” I said, with a nod. Then I dialed the number and turned on the speaker.
“Yes, Anton?” Semyon responded.
“Listen, are you baptized?”
“At my age, how could a Russian not be baptized?” Semyon answered. “I was born in the tsars’ time . . .”
“And are you still close to the Orthodox Faith?”
“Well . . .” Semyon was clearly embarrassed. “I go to church. Sometimes.”
“Tell me, how do they baptize adults?”
“The normal way is the same as for children. Off with the clothes and duck them underwater three times, head and all.”
“Thanks,” I said, and cut off the call. “Did you get that? Doubting Thomas . . . prepare for the sacrament.”
“What else will there be?” asked Las.
“You stand facing the west, spit three times and say: ‘I renounce Satan!’ ”
Las burst into laughter. “Come on, Anton . . . Stop telling me fibs. Okay, I accept the baptism, I was a bit too hasty there! A genuine, uncorrupted priest won’t be mean with the water. But standing facing the west . . . and spitting . . .”
I dialed Semyon again.
“Yes?” he asked curiously.
“Another question. How does the rite of renouncing Satan go in the baptism?”
“You stand facing the west. The priest asks if you renounce Satan and his works. You renounce him three times and spit towards the west—”
“Thanks.” I cut him off again.
Las said nothing, clutching the wheel and looking straight ahead. We had already passed the Moscow Orbital Highway.
“And what other difficult moments will there be?” he asked almost timidly.
“You take the plunge, you renounce Satan,” I said, counting on my fingers. “And the third step—you must bear in mind that everything in the church is triune, because God is a trinity—the third step . . . you get out of the font and run round the church three times, against the movement of the sun.”
“Naked?” Las asked, horrified. “With no trousers?”
“Of course. Like the Old Testament Adam, who was without sin until he did taste the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge!”
The phrase sprang to mind spontaneously, but it sounded very convincing.
“Well . . . if I have to . . .” Las said in a quiet voice.
“You could drop into any church,” I advised him. “Even a corrupt one. And buy a little book, with explanations.”
“I feel awkward going into a church,” Las admitted. “Not only am I not baptized, I’m a magician too! Bugger it, maybe I should postpone the baptism? If I have to run round the church naked . . . I’ll go to a gym for a while, firm up a bit . . .”
“All right, the part about running round the church isn’t true,” I said, taking pity on him. “But I would advise you to take the matter a bit more seriously.”
“How complicated everything is . . .” Las sighed as we trundled towards the terminal. “Is it D we want?”
“Yes, the new one,” I confirmed.
“Well, then, let’s go for it, with God’s help!” said Las.
I realized that the zeal of the neophyte still burned bright within him.
Chapter 2
IN THE AIRPORT LAS AND I SEPARATED. HE SET OFF TO TALK to people—his abilities were quite adequate for making them talk frankly and openly about everything. First of all he had to talk to the engineers who had prepared that cursed (or would it be more correct to say “blessed”?) Boeing for its flight, then with the flight controllers and, if he could manage it, with the crew. And I set off to see the Others on duty at the airport.
As regulations required, there were two of them—a Dark Other and a Light Other. Of course, I knew ours—Andrei, a young lad, Fifth-Level, he didn’t appear in the office very often but worked at the airport all the time. I’d seen Arkady, the elderly Dark Other a few times too, when I was flying out or coming back myself.
Naturally, they were up to speed on what had happened. Andrei and the Dark Other were only too glad to discuss the story of the plane with me—but they couldn’t tell me anything useful because they didn’t know anything. The Dark Others had already ironically dubbed the child “The Boy Who Wouldn’t Fly”—and that was probably the most valuable thing I learned. I also noticed that the relationship between Andrei and Arkady was entirely friendly, and made a mental note to recommend more frequent changes of duty personnel. There’s no prohibition in principle on friendly relations between Others. There are cases like that: I myself was friendly with a family of vampires, and in Petersburg there’s even a unique family—a Light Magician and a Dark Clairvoyant—although they don’t work in the Petersburg Watches . .
. But in the case of a young Light One and an experienced Dark One there was a risk of undesirable influence.
Best to play safe.
With this thought in mind I wandered on round the airport for a while, discovered a vampire standing in a check-in queue and out of sheer boredom checked his registration seal—everything was in order. I got the urge to have another beer, but that would have been overdoing it. On the other hand . . . I didn’t have to drive . . . I caught myself edging closer and closer to the bar.
Fortunately, Las showed up, brisk and cheerful. I turned away from the little restaurant with a feeling of relief and waved to him.
“Ninety-four percent!” he informed me cheerfully.
I raised one eyebrow quizzically—well, at least, that was the gesture I tried to imitate.
“I’ve been interested for a long time in the question of how many people pick their noses when they’re sure no one can see them. So I asked exactly a hundred people—and ninety-four of them confessed!”
For a second I thought Las must have gone insane.
“And you asked people about that instead of trying to discover something unusual?”
“Why ‘instead of’?” asked Las, offended. “As well as! Just think about it: how can you use the minimal amount of magical influence to make people tell the truth first, and make sure they’ll forget the questions as completely as possible! I introduced myself as a sociologist carrying out a survey with the permission of the management. I asked about any strange things they’d seen, about where they spent this morning . . . basically, everything I was supposed to ask. That was all under the influence of ‘Plato.’ And at the end I asked the question about picking their noses. Surely you realize that someone who has confessed, even in an anonymous survey, that they pick boogers out of their noses with their finger when they’re alone will try to forget the whole business as quickly as possible? It was effective, and I got an answer to my question too!”
“Why did you want that answer?” I asked. “When they’re left alone, people often do . . . well . . . things that aren’t very attractive at all. Picking your nose with your finger is nothing, really.”
“Of course,” agreed Las. “But it’s indicative! The overwhelming majority of people will defend a footling little lie like that to the death. They don’t deny that they peep at immature nymphets, avoid paying their taxes or scheme against their colleagues at work, but they do deny something banal and funny that does no one any harm—picking their nose with their finger! That tells you a lot about people.”
“Next time ask about them picking a different place with their finger,” I replied somberly. “What about our business?”
Las shrugged.
“The plane was normal. They checked it out, just like they’re supposed to, no faults at all. By the way, did you know that planes can be allowed to fly when part of their equipment isn’t working? Well, everything was working on this one. And it’s a brand-new plane, made three years ago, not some old secondhand junk from China.”
“So no way was it going to crash, then?” I asked, to make absolutely sure.
“Everything is in God’s hands,” Las said, with a shrug, and then flaunted his brilliant knowledge of the Bible: “ ‘And a bird shall not fall from the sky without the will of the Lord!’ And even more so an airplane. Well . . . and it didn’t fall.”
“But the boy prophesied it,” I said. “And the lines of probability indicated an inevitable disaster . . . All right. The plane was in good condition, the crew was experienced. Was there anything strange at all?”
“To do with the plane, or in general?” Las asked.
“In general.”
“Well, a local polizei shat himself this morning.”
“What?”
“He couldn’t get to the toilet in time. Dumped in his trousers. They found him an old uniform in the duty office and he washed himself off in the shower . . .”
“Las, what is it that attracts you to all sorts of low crudity?” I asked indignantly. “Even if an employee of the Ministry of the Interior did suffer an attack of dysentery, it’s not a fit subject for discussion—let alone for irony! You’re a Light One! A Light Other!”
“Well, I feel sorry for both the polizei,” Las remarked casually.
My heart skipped half a beat.
“Both? Did they eat the meat pies at the local cafe?”
“Oh no, the other one’s digestion is fine,” Las reassured me. “The other one went insane.”
I waited. In anticipation of more specific questions, Las was clearly doling out the information in small doses quite deliberately—to heighten the drama.
“Aren’t you interested?” asked Las.
“Report in due form,” I told him.
Las sighed as he scratched the back of his head.
“Well, it’s nothing special, really. But it does kind of fall outside the everyday routine. This morning, about the same time you left the airport, something unpleasant happened to this police patrol and inspection unit. One polizei, Dmitry Pastukhov, went off to the privy but he didn’t move fast enough. And the other one . . . a little while later the other one walked into the duty office and put his holster, ID, and walkie-talkie on the desk. Said he’d lost interest in working for the forces of law and order and left. His bosses haven’t even informed anyone yet. They’re hoping he’ll change his mind and come back.”
“Let’s go,” I said
“Which one first?”
“The one who didn’t run fast enough.”
“No need to go anywhere, then. I told you—he got washed and changed and went back to his post.”
At first glance there was no way of telling that this morning police officer Dmitry Pastukhov had found himself in such a delicate and—why pretend otherwise?—embarrassing situation. Except that his uniform trousers, if you looked closely, were a little too big for him, and they were a slightly different shade of gray from his tunic.
He himself, however, was looking quite magnificent. Inspired, you might say. Like a militiaman in a children’s story who has detained a bandit at the scene of his crime and is now being presented with a watch engraved “For conspicuous valor in the line of duty” by a general. Like a test pilot who has managed to get his plane back to the airfield after its engine failed, and can feel the wheels gently touching the ground. Like a man taking a cigarette out of the pack and smiling awkwardly as he looks round at the gigantic icicle that has just crashed into the pavement at the very spot where he was walking only a moment ago . . .
Like a man who has survived deadly danger and realizes that he is still alive, but doesn’t really understand why.
Dmitry Pastukhov was sauntering about in front of the entrance to the airport building with his hands clasped behind his back in nonregulation style, gazing around with a good-natured, friendly air.
But as Las and I came closer a quite different expression appeared on the policeman’s face.
Like the expression on the militiaman’s face when the general tells him: “Well done . . . well done . . . I suppose you knew whose nephew it was that you were arresting—but that didn’t frighten you? You’re a real hero . . .” Like the expression on the pilot’s face when his plane is already taxiing over the concrete and the fuel tank explodes in a ferocious ball of flame. Or the expression on the face of the man on the pavement, kneading his cigarette to soften it before lighting up, with his stare fixed on the shattered icicle, when he hears a sudden shout above his head: “Look out!”
He was afraid of me.
He knew who I was. Not exactly, perhaps . . . but there was no point in introducing myself as an inspector, a journalist, or an environmental health officer.
He knew that I wasn’t human.
“Wait here, Las,” I said. “I’d better handle this . . .”
Pastukhov waited without trying to walk away or pretend that he hadn’t noticed me approaching. He didn’t reach for his weapon, as I had been slightly afraid that he m
ight (I didn’t want to start the conversation as dynamically as that). And when I stopped two steps away, he heaved a sigh, smiled awkwardly, and asked: “Permission to smoke?”
“What?” I asked, perplexed. “Oh, of course . . .”
Pastukhov took out a cigarette and lit up greedily. Then he said: “One thing I really want to ask you: don’t make me get drunk anymore. They’ll chuck me out of the service! We’ve got another campaign on now, they sack you if you just show up for work with a hangover.”
I looked at him for a few seconds, then something came together in my head and I saw a gray Moscow winter, dirty snow on the verge of Peace Prospect, trading kiosks clustered round the Exhibition of Economic Achievements metro station, two militiamen walking towards me—one a bit older, the other still very young.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you really get it in the neck that time?”
The policeman shrugged indefinitely. Then he said: “You haven’t changed at all. Thirteen years have gone by—and you haven’t even aged.”
“We age slowly,” I said.
“Uh-huh.” Pastukhov nodded and tossed his cigarette away. “I’m not stupid. I understand everything. So . . . tell me straight away what you want. Or do what you want to do.”
He was afraid of me. Well, who wouldn’t be frightened of someone who can make you do anything at all with a single word?
I lowered my eyes, reaching for my shadow. I stepped into it—and I was in the Twilight. There wasn’t any particular necessity for it, but an aura can be scanned more thoroughly from there.
The policeman was human. Not the slightest indication of an Other. A man, and by no means the worst of them.
“Can you tell me what happened this morning?” I asked him as I returned to the everyday world. Pastukhov blinked—he’d probably caught a whiff of the Twilight. He couldn’t have noticed my disappearing for such a short time.
“Bisat and me were standing here,” he said. “Just shooting the breeze. Today was a good day . . .” From the way he said it, he clearly didn’t think it was anymore. “Then you walked past . . .”