Metro 2033 Part 33

'And my stepfather?'

'Sukhoi is alive and well, he's in charge. He's in the infirmary right now.' Kirill waved a hand in the direction of the staircase leading to a new exit from the station.

'Thanks!'

Artyom raced away.

'And just where have you been?' Kirill cried after him.

The 'infirmary' was sinister. There weren't many real wounded here, only five men. Other patients occupied the majority of the s.p.a.ce. Diapered like infants and confined in sleeping bags, they were laid out in a row. All of them had their eyes wide open and they mumbled incoherently through their half-open mouths. It wasn't a nurse watching over them, but a rifleman holding a phial with chloroform in his hands. From time to time one of those in diapers began to fidget along the floor, howling and transferring his agitation to the rest, and then the guard would place a rag soaked with chloroform to the man's face. The man didn't fall asleep, nor did he close his eyes, but he went quiet for some time and calmed down.

Artyom didn't see Sukhoi right away: he was sitting in the office, discussing something with the station doctor. Leaving, he ran into Artyom and was stupefied.

'You're alive . . . Artyomka! Alive . . . Thank G.o.d . . . Artyom!' he had begun to mutter, touching Artyom on the shoulder, as if wis.h.i.+ng to convince himself that Artyom was indeed standing in front of him. Artyom embraced him. And he, like a child, was afraid in the depths of his soul that he would return to the station and his stepfather would begin to scold him: he would say, where did you disappear to, how irresponsible, how long were you going to behave like a little boy . . . But instead, Sukhoi just held him close and didn't let go for a long time. When the fatherly embrace finally ended, Artyom saw that Sukhoi's eyes were filled with tears and he blushed. Briefly, he told his stepfather where he had disappeared to and what he had managed to do during that time, and he explained why he had returned. Sukhoi only shook his head and criticized Hunter. Then he came to his senses, saying that he would not speak ill of the dead. Though, he didn't know what had happened to Hunter.

'Do you see what's going on here?' Sukhoi's voice again hardened. 'Every night they pour in and there aren't enough bullets. A handcar arrived from Prospect Mir with supplies, but it's peanuts.'

'They want to blow up the tunnel at Prospect Mir to cut off both VDNKh VDNKh and the other stations completely,' Artyom reported. and the other stations completely,' Artyom reported.

'Yes . . . They are afraid of the ground water. They aren't venturing close to VDNKh. VDNKh. But this won't help for long. The dark ones will find other entrances.' But this won't help for long. The dark ones will find other entrances.'

'When will you be leaving here? There's only a little time left. Less than a day. You have to get everything ready.'

His stepfather took a long look at him, as if checking him over.

'No, Artyom, I only have one way out of here, and it's not to Prospect Mir. We have thirty wounded men here. What are we to do with them? Throw them away? And who will maintain the defences while I am saving my hide? How can I go up to a man and say to him: "Well, you are staying here so that you can hold them off and die, but I'm going"? No . . .' He took a breath. 'Let them blow it up. We'll hold out as long as we can. I have to die like a man.'

'Then I'll stay with you,' Artyom said. 'They have the missiles and they will manage without me. What's my purpose anyway? At least I'll help you . . .'

'No, no. You must go,' Sukhoi interrupted him. 'We have a fully operational pressurized gate and the escalator is working again. You can make your way to the exit quickly. You must go with the others. They don't even know what they're dealing with!'

Artyom suspected that his stepfather was sending him away from the station just to save his life. He tried to object, but Sukhoi didn't want to hear anything.

'Only you alone in your group know how the dark ones are able to drive people mad.' He pointed at the diapered wounded.

'What's wrong with them?'

'They were in the tunnels, they couldn't hold out. We managed to drag these out, and that's good. But the dark ones tore so many apart while they were alive! Incredible strength. The main thing is, when they approach and begin to howl, there are few who can stand it. You understand that. Our volunteers handcuffed themselves together so they wouldn't run away. But those who managed to get loose are lying here. There are only a few wounded because if the dark ones reach you, it's hard to get away.'

'Zhenka? . . . did they get him?' Artyom asked, swallowing. Sukhoi nodded. Artyom decided not to get the details.

'Let's go while there's a lull.' Taking advantage of his silence, Sukhoi added, 'We'll have a chat and drink some tea. We still have some left. Are you hungry?' His stepfather embraced him and moved into the command room.

Artyom looked around in amazement: he could not believe that in the weeks since he had left that VDNKh VDNKh had managed to change so much. The once comfortable, homelike station had now been cast into anguish and despair. He wanted to flee from here as soon as possible. A machine gun clattered behind them. Artyom gripped his weapon. had managed to change so much. The once comfortable, homelike station had now been cast into anguish and despair. He wanted to flee from here as soon as possible. A machine gun clattered behind them. Artyom gripped his weapon.

'That's a warning,' Sukhoi said. 'The most terrible time will start in a few hours. I feel it already. The dark ones come in waves, and we have killed only one recently. Never fear, if something serious begins, our guys will use the siren - they sound a general alarm.'

Artyom pondered. His dream of walking into the tunnel . . . Now it was impossible, and a real meeting with a dark one would hardly end just as harmlessly. There was no point in mentioning it when Sukhoi would never allow him to go into the tunnel alone. He had to reject such a mad idea. He had more important things to do.

'I knew that you and I would see each other again, that you would come,' Sukhoi said, pouring the tea once they were in the command room. 'A man arrived here a week ago looking for you.'

'What man?' Artyom was put on his guard.

'He said you and he are acquainted. Tall, skinny, with a small beard. He had a strange name, similar to Hunter's.'

'Khan?' Artyom was surprised.

'That's it. He told me that you would come back here again, and was so certain that I was put at ease at once. And he also gave me something for you.' Sukhoi reached for the wallet in which he kept notes and objects known only to him and pulled out a sheet of paper folded a couple of times. Unfolding the paper, Artyom lifted it to his eyes. It was a short note. The words written in a sloppy fleeting hand baffled him. 'He who is brave and patient enough to peer into the darkness his whole life will be first to see a flicker of light in it.'

'And didn't he give you anything else?' Artyom asked with a puzzled look.

'No,' replied Sukhoi. 'I thought it was a coded message.'

But the man had come here especially for this. Artyom shrugged his shoulders. Half of everything Khan had said and done seemed complete nonsense to him but, on the other hand, the other half had compelled him to look at the world otherwise. How was he to know to which part this note pertained?

They drank tea and chatted for quite a while. Artyom was unable to throw off the feeling that he was seeing his stepfather for the last time, and it was as if he was trying to talk long enough with him to last him for the rest of his life. Then the time to leave arrived.

Sukhoi tugged the handle and, with a grinding sound, the heavy cover lifted a metre. Stagnant rainwater poured down from outside. Standing in slime up to his ankles, Artyom smiled at Sukhoi, though the tears were welling up in his eyes. He was on the point of saying goodbye when, at the last moment, he remembered the most important thing. Withdrawing the children's book from his rucksack, he opened it to the page with the photograph inside and handed it to his stepfather. His heart began to beat anxiously.

'What is it?' Sukhoi was surprised.

'Do you recognize her?' Artyom asked hopefully. 'Look closer. Isn't this my mother? You would have seen her when she gave me away to you.'

'Artyom,' Sukhoi smiled sadly, 'I hardly saw her face. It was very dark there and I was looking at a rat. I don't remember her at all. I remember how you then grabbed my hand and didn't cry at all, and then she was gone. I'm sorry.'

'Thank you. Bye.' Artyom was on the verge of saying, 'Daddy,' but a lump got caught in his throat. 'Maybe we'll meet again . . .' He tightened his gas mask, bent over, slipped beneath the curtain and ran up along the rickety steps of the escalator, carefully pressing the crumpled photograph to his breast.

The escalator seemed simply endless. One had to climb it slowly and very carefully. The steps creaked and chattered beneath his feet, and in one place they unexpectedly moved downwards, and Artyom barely managed to yank away his foot. Moss-covered remnants of huge branches and small saplings were scattered everywhere, carried here by the explosion, perhaps. The walls were overgrown with bindweed and moss and, through holes in the plastic covering of the side barriers, the rusty parts of the mechanism could be seen. He didn't once glance back. Everything was black up above. That was a bad sign. Suddenly he thought, what if the station pavilion crumbled and he couldn't overcome the obstacle? If it were just a moonless night, it wouldn't be too bad: but it wouldn't be easy guiding the fire of the missile battery in poor visibility. The closer to the end of the escalator, the brighter the glares on the walls and the thin beams penetrating the slits became. The exit to the exterior pavilion was blocked, not by stones but by fallen trees. After several minutes of searching, Artyom discovered a narrow trapdoor through which he could just about squeeze. A huge gap, almost the length of the whole ceiling, yawned in the roof of the vestibule through which the pale lunar light fell. The floor was covered with broken branches and even with whole trees. Artyom noted several strange objects next to one of the walls: large, dark-grey leather spheres, as tall as a man, rolling in the brush. They looked repulsive and Artyom was afraid to go any closer to them. Switching off his flashlight, he exited onto the street. The upper station vestibule stood among an acc.u.mulation of the expanded frames of once graceful merchants' pavilions and kiosks. Ahead he could see an enormous building. It was strangely bent and one of the wings was half demolished. Artyom looked around: Ulman and his comrade were not around. They must have been delayed along the way. He had a little time left to study the surroundings.

CHAPTER 20.

Born to Creep

After catching his breath for a minute, he listened, trying to detect the heartrending howl of the dark ones. The Botanical Gardens were not far from here, and Artyom couldn't understand why these beasts had not reached their station along the surface before now. Everything was quiet, but somewhere in the distance wild dogs howled sadly. Artyom didn't want to run into them. If they had managed to survive on the surface all these years, something must have distinguished them from the dogs the metro residents kept.

Moving a little further away from the entrance to the station, he discovered something strange: a shallow, crudely dug trench encircled the pavilion. A stagnant dark liquid filled it as if it were a tiny moat. Jumping the trench, Artyom approached one of the kiosks and looked inside. It was completely empty. On the floor was broken gla.s.s. Everything else had been taken. He investigated several other kiosks, until he stumbled onto one which promised to be more interesting than the others. Outwardly, it resembled a tiny fortress: it was a cube welded from thick sheets of iron with a tiny window made of plate gla.s.s. A sign over the window read 'Currency Exchange'. The door was secured with an unusual lock. It wasn't opened with a key, but with the correct digital combination. Approaching the little window, Artyom tried to open it, but he couldn't. He noticed some faded handwriting on the windowsill. Forgetting the danger, Artyom turned on his flashlight. It looked as if whoever had written it had been left handed but he was able to read the uneven letters. It said, 'Bury me the human way. Code 767.' And as soon as he understood what it might mean, an angry chirr was heard overhead. Artyom recognized the sound right away. The flying monsters above Kalinskiy had cried exactly like that. He hastily put out the flashlight, but was too late: he heard the call again, directly above him.

Artyom desperately looked around, searching for somewhere to hide. He decided to try the numbers written on the windowsill. Pressing the b.u.t.tons with the digits in the necessary sequence, he pulled the handle toward him. He'd been right. A dull click was heard inside the lock, and the door gave with difficulty, creaking on its rusty hinges. Artyom wriggled inside, locked himself in and again turned on his light. In a corner, resting with its back to the wall, sat the shrivelled mummy of a woman. It was squeezing a thick felt-tip pen in one hand, and in the other a plastic bottle. The walls were covered with neat female handwriting from top to bottom. An empty tin of pills, bright chocolate wrappers and soda cans lay on the floor, and in a corner stood a half-opened safe. Artyom wasn't afraid of the corpse. He felt only pity for the unknown girl. For some reason he was sure that it was a girl. The cry of the flying beast was heard once more, and then a powerful blow on the roof shook the kiosk. Artyom fell to the floor, waiting.

The attack was not repeated, and the squeals of the creature began to grow more distant, so he decided to stand up. When it came down to it, he was able to hide as long as he liked in his shelter: the girl's corpse had not been disturbed all this time, though certainly enough hunters had feasted on those around it. Of course, he might have been able to kill the monster, but he would have had to go outside. And if he missed or the beast turned out to be armoured, a second chance wouldn't present itself. It was more reasonable to wait for Ulman. If he was still alive.

Artyom began to read the handwriting on the walls to pa.s.s the time. 'I write because I am bored and so I don't go insane. I've been sitting in this stall for three days already and I am afraid to go outside. I have seen ten people who were not able to run into the metro, they suffocated and are lying right in the middle of the street even now. It's good that I managed to read in the paper how to glue adhesive tape to the seams. I will wait until the wind carries the cloud away. They wrote that there won't be any more danger after a day. 9 July. I tried reaching the metro. Some kind of iron wall starts beyond the escalator. I wasn't able to lift it and no matter how much I beat on it, no one opened it. I started feeling really bad after ten minutes, so I came back here. There are many dead around. Everything is horrible, they are all swollen up and they smell. I broke the gla.s.s in a grocery stall and took the chocolate and mineral water. Now I won't starve to death. I have felt terribly weak. I have a safe full of dollars and roubles and nothing to do with them. That's strange. It turns out they are only bits of paper. 10 July. They have continued bombing. An awful roar was heard all day to the right, from Prospect Mir. I thought no one was left, but yesterday a tank pa.s.sed at a high speed. I wanted to run out and attract their attention, but I couldn't. I really miss Mom and Leva. I've been throwing up all day. Later I fell asleep. 11 July. A horribly burnt man has pa.s.sed by. I don't know where he has been hiding all this time. He was forever crying and wheezing. It was really awful. He went toward the metro, then I heard a loud bang. Most likely he was knocking on that wall, too. Then everything went quiet. Tomorrow I'll go take a look and see whether they opened it for him or nor.'

A new blow shook the booth - the monster wasn't giving up on its catch. Artyom staggered and nearly fell on the dead body, barely able to hold himself up by grabbing onto the counter. Bending down, he waited another minute, then continued reading.

'12 July. I'm not able to leave. I'm s.h.i.+vering, I don't understand whether I am sleeping or not. I was talking to Leva for an hour today and he said he will marry me soon. Then Mom arrived and her eyes were flowing. Then I was left alone again. I'm so lonely. When it all ends, when will they rescue us? Some dogs are here and are eating the corpses. Finally, thank you. I have been throwing up. 13 July. There's still some canned food, chocolate and mineral water, but I don't want it any more. It'll be another year before life returns to normal. The Great Patriotic War went on for 5 years. Nothing can be longer. Everything will be OK. They will find me. 14 July. I don't want it any more. I don't want it any more. Bury me the human way, I don't want to be in this d.a.m.ned iron box . . . It's cramped. Thanks for the Phenazepam. Good night.'

Alongside was some more handwriting, but ever more incoherent and ragged, and drawings: imps, young girls in large hats or bows, human faces. 'Obviously she was hoping that the nightmare that she survived would soon be over,' Artyom thought. 'A year or two, and everything would come full circle, everything would be as it was before. Life would go on and everyone would forget about what had happened. How many years have pa.s.sed since then? Mankind has only further distanced itself from returning to the surface during this time. Did she dream that only those who managed to get down into the metro would survive?'

Artyom thought about himself. He had always wanted to believe that once people were able to get out of the metro in order to live again as they had before, they would be able to restore the majestic buildings erected by their ancestors, and settle down in them so as not to squint at the rising sun and to breathe not the tasteless mixture of oxygen and nitrogen filtered by gas masks, but to swallow with delight the air suffused with the fragrances of plants . . . He didn't know how they smelled before, but it was supposed to be wonderful. His mother had reminisced about flowers. But, looking at the shrivelled body of the unknown girl who didn't live to see the cherished day when her nightmare ended, he began to doubt that he would. How did his hope to see the return of a previous life differ from hers? During the years of existence in the metro, man had not ama.s.sed the strength to climb the steps of the s.h.i.+ning escalator leading to his past glory and splendour in triumph. On the contrary, he was reduced, becoming used to the darkness. Most people had already forgotten the absolute authority mankind had once had over the world, others pined for it, and a third group cursed it.

A horn sounded from outside and Artyom threw himself to the window. A very unusual vehicle stood on a patch of ground in front of the kiosks. He had seen automobiles before: in his distant childhood, then in pictures and photographs in books and, finally, during his previous climb to the surface. But not one of them looked like this. The huge six-wheeled truck was painted red. Behind its cab, which had two rows of seats, the metal body of the truck had a white line along the side, and some pipes piled on the roof. Two rotating blue lights blinked. Instead of struggling out of the booth, he shone his flashlight through the gla.s.s, waiting for an answering signal. The truck's headlights flashed on and off several times, but Artyom was unable to leave the kiosk: two huge shadows were diving headlong one after the other. The first grabbed the roof of the truck with its talons and was trying to lift the vehicle up, but it was too heavy. Lifting the vehicle's body a half metre from the ground, the monster tore off both pipes, squealed with displeasure and dropped them. The second creature struck the automobile in the side with a screech, counting on turning it over. A door swung open, and a man in a protective suit jumped to the asphalt with a bulky machine gun in his hands. Lifting the barrel, he waited several seconds, evidently allowing the monster to come closer, and then let loose a spray of bullets. Offended chirring was heard from overhead. Artyom hastily opened the lock and ran outside. One of the winged monsters was describing a wide circle about thirty metres above their heads, preparing to strike again but the other couldn't be seen anywhere.

'Get in the vehicle!' yelled the man with the machine gun. Artyom raced towards it, scrambled into the cab and sat on the long seat. The machine gunner let off a burst of shots several more times, then jumped onto the footboard, slid into the cab and slammed the door behind him. The vehicle roared off.

'You feeding the pigeons?' Ulman hooted, looking at Artyom through his gas mask. Artyom thought that the flying beasts would pursue them, but instead, having flown past about another hundred metres behind the vehicle, the creatures turned back towards VDNKh. VDNKh.

'They are defending a nest,' the fighter said. 'We've heard about that. They would not just have attacked the vehicle like that. They aren't big enough. Where is it, I wonder?'

Artyom suddenly understood where the monsters had their nest, and why not one living thing, including the dark ones, dared be seen next to the exit from VDNKh. VDNKh.

'Right in our station's hall, above the escalators,' he said.

'It that so? Strange, usually they are higher, they nest on buildings,' the fighter replied. 'Most likely, it's another type. Right . . . Sorry we were late.'

It turned out to be rather cramped in the suits and with the bulky weapons in the vehicle's cab. The rear seats were occupied by some of rucksacks and cases. Ulman had taken the outside seat, Artyom had ended up in the centre, and left of him, behind the wheel, sat Pavel, Ulman's friend from Prospect Mir.

'What's there to excuse? It wasn't on purpose,' the driver said. 'Something the colonel didn't warn us about. We had the impression a steamroller had pa.s.sed over the street that runs from Prospect Mir to Rizhskaya. Why that bridge hasn't collapsed I don't know. There wasn't anywhere to hide. We barely got away from some dogs.'

'Haven't you seen any dogs yet?' Ulman asked.

'I only heard them,' Artyom responded.

'Well, we had a good look at them,' Pavel said, turning the wheel.

'What about them?' Artyom was interested in learning from him.

'It wasn't anything good. They tore off the b.u.mper and nearly gnawed through the wheel, even though we were moving. They only stopped when Petro took out the leader with the sniper rifle,' he nodded at Ulman.

It wasn't easy going: the ground was covered with trenches and holes. The asphalt was cracked and they had to make their way carefully. In one place they got stuck and it took about five minutes to cross a mountain of concrete rubble left from a collapsed bridge. Artyom looked out the window, squeezing the machine gun in his hands.

'It's going OK.' Pavel was talking about the vehicle.

'Where did you find it?' Artyom asked.

'At the depot. In pieces. They weren't able to fix it, so it couldn't go to fires while Moscow was burning down. Now we use it from time to time. Not for what it was built for, of course.'

'Got you.' Artyom again turned towards the window.

'We've been lucky with the weather.' Pavel, it seemed, wanted to talk. 'There's not a cloud in the sky. That's good. We'll be able to see a long way from the tower. If it turns out we reach it.'

'I'd rather be up there than walking from house to house,' nodded Ulman.

'True, the colonel was saying that almost no one lives in them, but I don't like the word "almost".'

The vehicle turned left and rolled along a straight, broad street, divided in two by a plot of gra.s.s. On the left was a row of almost undamaged brick homes, on the right stretched a gloomy, black forest. Powerful roots covered the roadway in several places and they had to go round them. But Artyom managed to see all this only in pa.s.sing.

'Look at it. What a beauty!' Pavel said with admiration. Straight ahead of them the Ostankino tower supported the sky, rising like a gigantic club threatening enemies brought down long ago. It was a perfectly fantastic structure. Artyom had never seen anything like it even in the pictures in books and magazines. His stepfather, of course, had told him about some Cyclopean structure located only two kilometres from their station, but Artyom hadn't been able to imagine how it would astound him. For the rest of the way, his mouth was open his mouth in surprise and stared at the grandiose silhouette of the tower, devouring it with his eyes. His delight at seeing this creation of human hands was mixed with the bitterness of finally understanding that nothing like it ever would be created again.

'It has been so close all this time, and I didn't even know.' He tried to express his feelings.

'If you don't come to the surface, there's much you will not understand in this life,' Pavel responded. 'Do you at least know why your station is named what it is - VDNKh? VDNKh? It means Great Achievements of Our Economy, that's what. There was a huge park there with all kinds of animals and plants. And this is what I am telling you: you are really lucky that the "birdies" spun their nest right at the entrance to your station. Because, some of these structures have been softened so much by the X-rays now they can't even sustain a direct hit from a grenade launcher.' It means Great Achievements of Our Economy, that's what. There was a huge park there with all kinds of animals and plants. And this is what I am telling you: you are really lucky that the "birdies" spun their nest right at the entrance to your station. Because, some of these structures have been softened so much by the X-rays now they can't even sustain a direct hit from a grenade launcher.'

'But they respect your feathered friends,' Ulman added.

'It is, so to say, your roof.' Both men began to laugh, and Artyom, who couldn't be bothered to set Pavel straight regarding the name of his station, stared once more at the tower. He noticed that the enormous structure had leaned a little, but it seemed to have attained a delicate balance and hadn't fallen. How in h.e.l.l could something put here decades ago remain standing? Neighbouring houses had been swept away, but the tower proudly rose among this devastation, as if it had been magically preserved from the enemy's bombs and missiles.

'It's interesting how it has survived,' Artyom muttered.

'They didn't want to demolish it, most likely,' Pavel said. 'Anyhow, it's a valuable infrastructure. It was twenty-five per cent higher you know, and there was a pointed spire on top. But now, you see, it's broken off almost right at the observation deck.'

'But why spare it? Didn't they really care anymore? Well, I suppose that it might not have gone well with the Kremlin.' Ulman was doubtful.

Sweeping through the gate behind the steel rods of the fence, the vehicle approached the very foundation of the television tower and stopped. Ulman took the night vision instrument and the machine gun and jumped to the ground. A minute later he gave the go-ahead: everything was quiet. Pavel also crawled out of the cab and, having opened the rear door, undertook dragging out the rucksacks with the equipment.

'There should be a signal in twenty minutes,' he said. 'We'll try to catch it from here.'

Ulman found the rucksack with the radio transmitter and began to a.s.semble a long field antenna from the multiple sections. Soon the radio antenna reached six metres in height and lazily swung too and fro in the slight breeze. Sitting at the transmitter, the fighter put the headset with the microphone to his head and began to listen for a transmission. Long minutes of waiting wore on. The shadow of a 'pterodactyl' covered them for an instant, but after describing a few circles over their heads, the monster disappeared behind the houses; apparently one encounter with armed people had been enough for it to remember a dangerous enemy.

'And what do they look like anyhow, these dark ones? You're our specialist on that,' Pavel asked Artyom.

'They look very scary. Like . . . people inside out,' Ulman was trying to describe them. 'The complete opposite of a human. And it's clear from the name itself: the dark ones - they are black.'

'You don't say . . . and where did they come from? No one even heard of them before, you know. What do they say about that?'

'It doesn't matter what you never heard of in the metro.' Artyom hastened to change the subject. 'Who from Park Pobedy knew anything about the cannibals?'

'That's true,' the driver brightened up. 'They found people with needles in their neck, but no one was able to say who had done it. What nonsense the Great Worm is! But this is where these dark ones of yours are from . . .'

'I have seen him,' Artyom interrupted him.

'The worm?' Pavel asked, not believing him.

'Well, something like it. A train, maybe. Huge, it bellows so that you block your ears. I didn't manage to see what happened - it tore right past me.'

'No, it couldn't be a train . . . What would power it? Mushrooms? Trains are driven by electricity. You know what it reminds me of? A drilling rig.'

'Why?' Artyom was taken aback. He had heard about drilling rigs, but the idea that the Great Worm who had gnawed the new pa.s.sages about which Dron had spoken may turn out to be such a machine hadn't occurred to him. And wasn't all belief in the worm built on denying machines?

'Don't say anything to Ulman about the drilling rig, and the colonel, too: they'll all think I'm nuts.' Pavel said. 'The thing is, I had been gathering information at Polis earlier. I tracked down every plainclothes detective, and in short, I was involved with subversives and the internal threat. And one day an old guy ran into me and he was convinced that in one recess in a tunnel next to Borovitskaya, a noise was constantly heard, as if a drilling machine was operating behind the wall. Of course, I would have immediately determined he was insane, but previously he had been a builder and knew a lot about such things.'