presidents didn't need to know that, they were only human
beings . . .
Maybe the leaders of the Watches had 'magical bombs' like that?
And that was why the Inquisition, which was in on the secret,
policed the observation of the Treaty so fervently?
Maybe.
But even so it would be better if it was impossible to initiate
ordinary people . . .
Even in my drowsy state I winced at the implications. What
did this mean, that I'd begun to think like a fully fledged Other?
There are Others, and there are human beings – and they're
second class. They can never enter the Twilight, they're not going
to live more than a hundred years. And there's nothing you can
do about it . . .
Yes, that was exactly the way I'd started to think. Finding a
good human being with the natural aptitudes of an Other and
bringing him or her over to your side – that was a joy. But turning everyone into Others was puerile nonsense, a dangerous and irresponsible
delusion.
Now I had something to feel proud about. It had taken me less
than ten years to finally stop being human.
My morning began in contemplation of the mysteries of the shower
cubicle. Reason finally conquered soulless metal and I got a shower
– with music playing, no less – and then concocted a breakfast
out of crispbreads, salami and yoghurt. Feeling cheered by the
sunshine, I settled down on the windowsill and ate with a view
of the Moscow river. For some reason I recalled Kostya admitting
that vampires can't look at the sun. Sunlight doesn't actually burn
them, it just gives them an unpleasant sensation.
But I had no time for melancholy reflection on old acquaintances.
I had to search for . . . for whom? The renegade Other? I
was hardly in the best position to do that. His human client? A
long, dreary business.
All right, I decided. Let's proceed according to the strict laws
of the classic detective novel. What do we have? A clue. The
letter sent from Assol. What does it give us? It doesn't give us
anything. Unless perhaps someone saw the letter being posted
three days ago. There's not much chance that they'd remember,
of course . . .
What a fool I was! I even slapped myself on the forehead. Sure,
it's no disgrace for an Other to forget about modern technology,
Others aren't very fond of complicated technical gizmos. But I
was a computer hardware specialist.
All the grounds of Assol were monitored by video cameras.
I put my suit on, knotted my tie and splashed on the eau de
cologne that Ignat had chosen for me the day before. Dropped
my phone into my inside pocket . . . 'Only dumb kids and sales
assistants carry their mobiles on their belts' – that was one of
Gesar's helpful little comments.
The phone was new and still unfamiliar. It had some games in
it, a built-in disc player, a dictaphone and all sorts of other unnecessary
nonsense.
I rode down to the lobby in the cool silence of the lift. And
immediately caught sight of my new acquaintance from the night
before – only this time he was looking really odd . . .
Las, wearing brand new blue overalls with Assol written on the
back, was explaining something to a confused elderly man dressed
the same way.
'This isn't a broom you've got here, okay! There's a computer
in it, it tells you how dirty the tarmac is and the pressure of the
cleaning solution . . . Come on, I'll show you . . .'
My feet automatically carried me after them.
Out in the yard, in front of the entrance to the lobby, there
were two bright orange road-sweeping machines, with a tank of
water, round brushes and a little glass cabin for the driver. There
was something toy-like about the small vehicles, as if they'd come
straight from Sunshine Town, where the happy baby girls and boys
cheerfully clean their own miniature avenues.
Las clambered nimbly into one of the machines and the elderly
man thrust himself halfway in after him. He listened to something
Las said, nodded and set off towards the second cleaning unit.
'And if you're lazy, you'll spend
beings . . .
Maybe the leaders of the Watches had 'magical bombs' like that?
And that was why the Inquisition, which was in on the secret,
policed the observation of the Treaty so fervently?
Maybe.
But even so it would be better if it was impossible to initiate
ordinary people . . .
Even in my drowsy state I winced at the implications. What
did this mean, that I'd begun to think like a fully fledged Other?
There are Others, and there are human beings – and they're
second class. They can never enter the Twilight, they're not going
to live more than a hundred years. And there's nothing you can
do about it . . .
Yes, that was exactly the way I'd started to think. Finding a
good human being with the natural aptitudes of an Other and
bringing him or her over to your side – that was a joy. But turning everyone into Others was puerile nonsense, a dangerous and irresponsible
delusion.
Now I had something to feel proud about. It had taken me less
than ten years to finally stop being human.
My morning began in contemplation of the mysteries of the shower
cubicle. Reason finally conquered soulless metal and I got a shower
– with music playing, no less – and then concocted a breakfast
out of crispbreads, salami and yoghurt. Feeling cheered by the
sunshine, I settled down on the windowsill and ate with a view
of the Moscow river. For some reason I recalled Kostya admitting
that vampires can't look at the sun. Sunlight doesn't actually burn
them, it just gives them an unpleasant sensation.
But I had no time for melancholy reflection on old acquaintances.
I had to search for . . . for whom? The renegade Other? I
was hardly in the best position to do that. His human client? A
long, dreary business.
All right, I decided. Let's proceed according to the strict laws
of the classic detective novel. What do we have? A clue. The
letter sent from Assol. What does it give us? It doesn't give us
anything. Unless perhaps someone saw the letter being posted
three days ago. There's not much chance that they'd remember,
of course . . .
What a fool I was! I even slapped myself on the forehead. Sure,
it's no disgrace for an Other to forget about modern technology,
Others aren't very fond of complicated technical gizmos. But I
was a computer hardware specialist.
All the grounds of Assol were monitored by video cameras.
I put my suit on, knotted my tie and splashed on the eau de
cologne that Ignat had chosen for me the day before. Dropped
my phone into my inside pocket . . . 'Only dumb kids and sales
assistants carry their mobiles on their belts' – that was one of
Gesar's helpful little comments.
The phone was new and still unfamiliar. It had some games in
it, a built-in disc player, a dictaphone and all sorts of other unnecessary
nonsense.
I rode down to the lobby in the cool silence of the lift. And
immediately caught sight of my new acquaintance from the night
before – only this time he was looking really odd . . .
Las, wearing brand new blue overalls with Assol written on the
back, was explaining something to a confused elderly man dressed
the same way.
'This isn't a broom you've got here, okay! There's a computer
in it, it tells you how dirty the tarmac is and the pressure of the
cleaning solution . . . Come on, I'll show you . . .'
My feet automatically carried me after them.
Out in the yard, in front of the entrance to the lobby, there
were two bright orange road-sweeping machines, with a tank of
water, round brushes and a little glass cabin for the driver. There
was something toy-like about the small vehicles, as if they'd come
straight from Sunshine Town, where the happy baby girls and boys
cheerfully clean their own miniature avenues.
Las clambered nimbly into one of the machines and the elderly
man thrust himself halfway in after him. He listened to something
Las said, nodded and set off towards the second cleaning unit.
'And if you're lazy, you'll spend
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