Metro 2033 Part 16

The third day of their stay at the station arrived. Time here did not pa.s.s according to the usual twenty-four-hour day; it crawled along like a slug, in the seconds of an unending nightmare. Artyom had already grown accustomed to the idea that n.o.body would ever approach him and talk to him again, and that the fate of a pariah was in store for him. It was as though he were no longer human and had turned into an inconceivably monstrous being, whom people saw not just as something ugly and repulsive, but also somehow perceptibly related to themselves - and that scared them and repulsed them even more, as if they might catch this monstrousness from him, as if he were a leper.

First he worked out an escape plan. Then came a resounding void of despair. After that a dull stupor took over, in which his intellect was disconnected from his life; he turned inward, drew in the threads of feeling and sensation, and went into a coc.o.o.n somewhere in a remote corner of consciousness. Artyom continued to work mechanically, his motions as precise as those of an automaton - all he had to do was dig, dump, roll, and dig again, roll again, drain, and go back the other way, faster, to start digging again. His dreams lost any meaning, and in them, just as in his waking hours, he endlessly ran, dug, pushed, pushed, dug, and ran.

On the evening of the fifth day, Artyom, pus.h.i.+ng the wheelbarrow, tripped over a shovel that had been left on the floor; the wheelbarrow overturned, the contents spilled, and then he fell down into it himself. When he arose slowly from the floor, an idea suddenly popped into his head, and instead of running for a bucket and cloth, he slowly and deliberately headed for the entrance to the tunnel. He himself could feel that he was now so loathsome, so repulsive, that his aura would have to drive anyone away. And just at the moment, due to an improbable confluence of circ.u.mstances, the security guard who was invariably hanging around at the end of his route, was, for some reason, not there. Without giving a moment's thought to whether someone might be chasing him, Artyom started off across the ties. Blinded, but hardly stumbling, he walked faster and faster, until breaking into a run; but his reason had not returned to the job of directing his body; it was still holed up, cowering in its corner.

Behind him he heard no shouts, no footsteps of pursuers; only the trolley clattered by, loaded with cargo and lighting its way with a dim lantern. Artyom simply pressed himself against the wall, letting it go past. The people on board either did not notice him or did not consider it necessary to pay him any attention; their gazes pa.s.sed over him without lingering, and they didn't say a word.

Suddenly he was seized with a feeling of his own invulnerability, conferred on him by his fall. Covered with stinking sludge, it was as if he had become invisible; this gave him strength, and consciousness gradually began to return. He had done it! Who knew how? Against all good sense, despite everything, he had managed to escape from the accursed station, and n.o.body was even following him! It was strange, it was amazing, but it seemed to him that, if he were only to try right now to comprehend what had happened, to dissect the miracle with the cold scalpel of rationality, then the magic would dissipate immediately, and the beam of the searchlight from a patrol trolley would quickly strike him in the back.

Light shone at the end of the tunnel. He slackened his pace, and after a minute he was at Dobryninskaya.

The border guard there satisfied himself with the simple question, 'Did they call for a sanitary technician?' and quickly let him through, waving away the air around himself with one hand while holding the other over his mouth. Artyom had to keep moving, to get out of Hansa territory fast, before the security guards finally gathered their wits, before he could hear behind him the tramp of iron-rimmed jackboots; before warning shots thundered out into the air, and then . . . Faster.

Not looking at anyone, keeping his eyes to the floor, his skin crawling with the disgust those around him felt for him, a vacuum forming around him so that he did not have to elbow his way through the dense crowd, Artyom strode to the border post. And now what was he going to say? More questions, more demands to present his pa.s.sport. How could he reply?

Artyom's head hung so low that his chin touched his chest, and he saw absolutely nothing around him, so that the only things he remembered about the whole station were the dark, neatly arranged granite slabs of the floor. He kept walking, frozen with antic.i.p.ation of the moment when he would hear the peremptory order to stand still. Hansa's border was closer and closer. Now . . . Right now . . .

'What kind of rubbish is this?' a gasping voice resounded in his ear. There it was.

'I . . . it . . . I got lost. I'm not from here . . .' muttered Artyom, tongue-tied from nervousness or maybe just getting into his role.

'Well get the h.e.l.l out of here, do you hear, you ugly mug?!' The voice sounded very persuasive, almost hypnotic, making him want to obey right away.

'Sure I . . . I would . . .' mumbled Artyom, afraid, not knowing how to get out of this one.

'Begging is strictly forbidden on Hansa territory!' the voice said sternly, and this time it was from a greater distance.

'Of course, right away . . . I have little children . . .' Artyom finally realized what b.u.t.ton to press, and became more animated.

'What children? Are you nuts?!' The invisible border guard flew into a rage. 'Popov, Lomako, come here! Get this sc.u.mbag out of here!'

Neither Popov nor Lomako wanted to soil their hands by touching Artyom, so they just shoved him in the back with the barrels of their automatics. Their superior's angry curses flew after them. To Artyom, this sounded like heavenly music.

Serpukhovskaya station! He had left the Hansa behind!

Finally he looked up, but what he saw in the eyes of the people surrounding him made him look back at the floor. This was not tidy Hansan territory; he was once again in the midst of the dirty, poverty-stricken bedlam that reigned throughout the rest of the metro. But even here, Artyom was too loathsome. The miraculous armour that had saved him along the way, making him invisible, forcing people to turn away from the fugitive and not to notice him, to let him through all the outposts and checkpoints, had now turned back into a stinking, s.h.i.+tty scab.

Evidently it was already past noon.

Now that the initial exultation had worn off, that strange strength, as if borrowed from someone else, which had forced him to keep walking across the stretch from Paveletskaya to Dobryninskaya, abruptly disappeared and left him alone with himself - hungry, deathly tired, without a penny to his name, giving off an unbearable stench, still showing traces of the blows of the week before.

The paupers next to whom he had sat down along the wall, decided that they could no longer abide such company, crawled away from him, cursing, in various directions, and he was left completely alone. Hugging his shoulders so as not to feel so cold, he closed his eyes and sat there for a long while, thinking about absolutely nothing, until sleep overcame him.

Artyom was walking along an unfinished tunnel. It was longer than all those he had traversed throughout his whole life, rolled into one. The tunnel twisted and turned, sometimes ascending, sometimes descending, but was never straight for more than ten paces. But it just went on and on, and walking became harder and harder; his feet, blistered and b.l.o.o.d.y, were hurting, his back ached, each new step called forth an echo of pain throughout his body; but as long as hope remained that the exit was not far away, maybe just around that next corner, Artyom found the strength to keep going. But then suddenly the simple, but terrifying thought occurred to him: what if the tunnel had no exit? If both the entrance and exit were closed, if someone invisible and omnipotent had shut him off - left him thras.h.i.+ng around, like a rat unsuccessfully trying to reach the experimenter's finger, in this maze without exit, so that he would keep dragging himself along until he gave out, until he collapsed - and doing this for no reason, just for fun? A rat in a maze. A squirrel in a wheel. But then, he thought, if continuing along the road does not lead to the exit, will refusing any senseless forward motion perhaps bestow liberation? He sat down on a railway tie, not because he was tired, but because he was at the end of his rope. The walls around him disappeared, and he thought: in order to achieve the goal, to complete the journey, all I have to do is to stop walking. Then this thought faded away and disappeared.

When he woke up, he was seized by overwhelming anxiety, and at first could not imagine what had caused it. Only later did he begin to recall bits of the dream, to piece together a mosaic from these fragments, but the fragments just would not hold together; they crumbled; there was not enough glue to hold them together. That glue was some idea that had come to him during his dream; it was pivotal, a vision from the heart, and very important to him. Without it, all that was left was a pile of ragged underwear; but with it - a wonderful picture, full of miraculous import, opening up limitless horizons. But he couldn't remember the idea. Artyom gnawed on his fists, seized his dirty head with his dirty hands, his lips whispered something incomprehensible, and pa.s.sers-by looked at him with fear and aversion. But the idea just didn't want to return. Then slowly, carefully, as if trying to use a strand of hair to pull out something stuck in a swamp, he started to reconstruct the idea out of the fragments of memory. And - what a miracle! - deftly grabbing hold of one of the images, he suddenly recognized it, in the same primordial form that it had first announced itself in his dream.

To finish the journey, he only needed to stop walking.

But now, in the bright light of waking consciousness, the thought seemed to him ba.n.a.l, pitiful, unworthy of attention. To finish the journey, he needed to stop walking? Well, of course. If you stop walking, then your journey is over. What could be simpler? But is that really the way out? And could that really be the conclusion of the journey?

It often happens that an idea that appears in a dream to be a stroke of genius, turns out to be a meaningless jumble of words when one wakes up . . .

'O, my beloved brother! Filth on your body and in your soul.' The voice was right next to him.

That was as unexpected as the return of the idea, and the bitter taste of that disillusionment instantly vanished. He didn't even think the voice was addressing him, since he had already become so accustomed to the idea that people fled in all directions even before he could utter a word.

'We welcome all the orphaned and wretched,' the voice continued; it sounded so soft, so rea.s.suring, so tender, that Artyom, no longer restraining himself, cast a sideways glance to the left, and then gloomily glanced to the right, afraid to discover that the person speaking was actually addressing somebody else.

But there was n.o.body else nearby. The person was talking to him. Then he slowly raised his head and met the eyes of a rather short, smiling man wearing a loose-fitting robe, with dark blond hair and rosy cheeks, who was reaching out his hand in friends.h.i.+p. It was vital for Artyom to reciprocate, so, not daring to smile, he too extended his hand.

'Why isn't he recoiling from me like everybody else?' thought Artyom. 'He's even ready to shake my hand. Why did he come up to me on his own, when everyone around was trying to get as far away from me as possible?'

'I will help you, my brother!' the rosy-cheeked fellow continued. 'The brothers and I will give you shelter and restore your spiritual strength.'

Artyom just nodded, but his new companion found that sufficient.

'So allow me to take you to the Watchtower, O my beloved brother,' he intoned and, firmly taking Artyom by the hand, drew him along.

Artyom did not remember much, and certainly didn't remember the road, but only understood that he was being led from the station into a tunnel, but which of the four, he did not know. His new acquaintance introduced himself as Brother Timothy. On the road, and at the grey, mundane Serpukhovskaya station, and in the dark tunnel, he never stopped talking: 'Rejoice, O beloved brother of mine, that you met me on your way, for your life is about to undergo a momentous change. The cheerless gloom of your aimless wandering is at an end, because you will attain that which you seek.'

Artyom did not understand very well what the man had in mind, because for him personally, his wanderings were far from over; but the rosy-cheeked and gentle Timothy spoke so smoothly and tenderly that he just wanted to keep on listening, to communicate with him in the same language, grateful for not rejecting him, when the whole world rejected him.

'Do you believe in the one true G.o.d, O Brother Artyom?' Timothy inquired, as if by the way, looking Artyom attentively in the eyes. Artyom could only shake his head in an indefinite way and mumble something unintelligible, which could be interpreted as desired: either as agreement or rejection.

'That's good, that's wonderful, Brother Artyom,' Timothy exclaimed. 'Only belief in the truth will save you from the torments of eternal h.e.l.l and grant you expiation of your sins. Because,' he a.s.sumed a stern and triumphal expression, 'the kingdom of the G.o.d of our Jehovah is coming, and the holy biblical prophecies will be fulfilled. Do you study the Bible, O brother?'

Artyom mumbled again, and the rosy-cheeked fellow this time looked at him with some misgivings.

'When we get to the Watchtower, your own eyes will convince you that you must study the Holy Book, given to us from on high, and that great blessings will come to those who have turned to the path of Truth. The Bible, a precious gift of the G.o.d of our Jehovah, can only be compared to a letter from a loving father to his young son,' Brother Timothy added, for good measure. 'Do you know who wrote the Bible?' he asked Artyom a bit sternly.

CHAPTER 11.

I Don't Believe It

Artyom decided that there was no sense in pretending any more, and honestly shook his head.

'At the Watchtower, they will lead you to this, and to much more, and your eyes will be opened to many things,' proclaimed Brother Timothy. 'Do you know what Jesus Christ, the Son of G.o.d, said to his disciples at Laodicea?' Seeing Artyom avert his eyes, he shook his head in mild reproach. 'Jesus said, "I counsel you to buy from me salve to anoint your eyes, that you may see." But Jesus was not talking about physical illness,' stressed Brother Timothy, raising his index finger, and his voice s.h.i.+fted to an exalted, intriguing intonation that promised to the inquiring mind an astonis.h.i.+ng sequel.

Artyom was quick to express lively interest.

'Jesus was talking about spiritual blindness which had to be healed,' said Timothy, in explanation of the riddle. 'Like you and thousands of other lost souls who are wandering blindly in the dark. But belief in the true G.o.d of our Jehovah is that salve for the eyes which opens your eyelids wide, so that you can see the world as it really is; because you can see physically, but spiritually you are blind.'

Artyom thought that eye ointment would have done him good four days ago. Since he didn't reply, Brother Timothy decided that this complex idea required some further interpretation, and was quiet for a while, to allow what Artyom had heard to sink in.

But after five minutes, a light flickered up ahead, and Brother Timothy interrupted his reflections to report the joyous news: 'Do you see the light in the distance? That is the Watchtower. We're here!' There was no tower at all, and Artyom felt slightly disappointed. It was a regular train standing in a tunnel, whose headlights shone softly in the darkness, illuminating fifteen metres in front of it. When Brother Timothy and Artyom arrived at the train, a chubby man came down from the engineer's cab to meet them, wearing the same type of robe as Brother Timothy; he embraced Rosy-Cheeks and also called him 'my beloved brother,' from which Artyom deduced that this was more a figure of speech than a declaration of love.

'Who is this young fellow?' the chubby guy asked in a low voice, smiling tenderly at Artyom.

'Artyom, our new brother, who wants to walk with us on the path to Truth, to study the Holy Bible, and to renounce the Devil,' explained rosy-cheeked Timothy.

'Then permit the Watchtower to welcome you, O my beloved Brother Artyom!' droned Fatso, and Artyom was again amazed that he too did not seem to notice the unbearable stench that had now permeated his entire being.

'And now,' cooed Brother Timothy, as they were making their leisurely way through the first car, 'before you meet the brothers in the Hall of the Kingdom, you have to clean your body, for Jehovah G.o.d is clean and holy, and expects his wors.h.i.+ppers to maintain their spiritual, moral, and physical cleanliness, as well as cleanliness of thoughts. We live in an unclean world,' he said, glancing sadly at Artyom's clothes, which were certainly in a deplorable condition, 'and serious efforts are required of us to remain clean in G.o.d's eyes, my brother,' he concluded, and hustled Artyom into a nook that was decked out with plastic sheets, set up not far from the entrance to the car. Timothy asked him to undress, and then handed him a bar of grey soap with a nauseating smell, and five minutes later ran water for him from a rubber hose.

Artyom tried not to think about what the soap was made out of. At any event, it not only ate up the dirt on his skin, but also destroyed the disgusting smell emanating from his body. After the procedures were complete, Brother Timothy gave Artyom a relatively fresh robe, like his own, and looked disapprovingly at the cartridge case hanging around his neck, perceiving it to be a pagan talisman, but limited himself to a reproachful sigh.

It was also surprising that on this strange train, stuck, who knows when, in the middle of a tunnel, and now serving as a shelter for the brethren, there was water, and it came out under such strong pressure.

But when Artyom asked about the strange water that was coming from the hose and how it was possible to build such a structure, brother Timothy only mysteriously smiled and declared that the aspiration to please Lord Jehovah really moved people to heroic and glorious acts. The explanation was more than a bit foggy but it would have to suffice.

Then they went into the second wagon where long, empty tables were built between rigid lateral benches. Brother Timothy walked up to a man who was conjuring something over a big cauldron from which a seductive steam was rising, and he returned with a big dish of some kind of thin gruel, which turned out to be quite edible even though Artyom couldn't work out what it was made from.

While he hastily scooped up the hot soup with an old aluminium spoon, Brother Timothy watched affectionately, not missing a chance to proselytize: 'Don't think that I don't trust you, brother, but your answer to my question about belief in our G.o.d didn't sound very solid. Can you really imagine a world in which He doesn't exist? Surely our world can't have created itself, not according to His wise will? Could the infinite variety of forms of life, the beauty of the earth,' he gestured around the dining room with his beard, 'could all this be just an accident?'

Artyom looked around the wagon attentively but didn't see any other forms of life in it apart from themselves and the cook. Again, he bent over his bowl and only issued some sceptical rumblings.

Contrary to his expectations, his disagreement didn't embitter Brother Timothy at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had visibly enlivened, his pink cheeks were lit with a fervent, fighting flush.

'If this doesn't convince you of His existence,' brother Timothy continued energetically, 'then think about it in a different way. If this world isn't a display of divine will then it means . . .' his voice froze, as if from fright, and only after several long moments, during which Artyom completely lost his appet.i.te, did he finish his thought: 'Then that means that people are left to their own devices, and there's no point to our existence, and there's no point in prolonging it . . . It means that we are completely alone, and no one cares for us. It means that we are plunged into chaos and there isn't the slightest hope of a light at the end of the tunnel . . . And it's frightening to live in such a world. It's impossible to live in such a world.'

Artyom didn't say anything to him in reply, but these words made him think. Until this moment he had in fact viewed his life as total chaos, like a chain of accidents without connection or sense. Though this oppressed him and the temptation to trust any simple truth that might fill his life with meaning was great, he considered it cowardice and through the pain and the doubt, he gained strength in the thought that his life was of no use and that each living thing should resist nonsense and the chaos of life. But he didn't feel at all like arguing with the gentle Timothy right now.

He felt a satisfied and benevolent feeling, and he felt sincere grat.i.tude to the person who had picked him up, tired, hungry and stinking, and who had spoken warmly to him, who now fed him and had given him clean clothes. He wanted to somehow thank him and so when the man beckoned him to join a meeting of brothers, Artyom stood up readily, showing with his every mannerism, that he would go with pleasure to this meeting and wherever he was led.

The meeting was to take place in the next, that is, the third, carriage. It was full of all sorts of people, mostly dressed in the same overalls. In the middle of the carriage there was a small scaffold and the person standing on it towered over everybody at floor level, almost resting his head on the ceiling.

'It's important that you listen to everything,' Brother Timothy told Artyom instructively, clearing their path with gentle nudges and leading Artyom to the very middle of the crowd.

The orator was rather old, and there was a handsome grey beard falling down his chest, and his deep-set eyes of an indeterminate colour looked down wisely and calmly. His face wasn't thin or round, it was furrowed with deep wrinkles but it didn't portray an old man's weakness or helplessness but rather a wisdom. It radiated an inexplicable force.

'That's Elder John,' Brother Timothy whispered to Artyom in a reverential voice. 'You are really lucky, Brother Artyom, as soon as the sermon begins you will receive teachings at once.'

The elder raised his hand; the rustlings and whisperings stopped immediately. Then he began in a deep and sonorous voice: 'My first lesson to you, my beloved brothers, is about how to know what G.o.d is asking of you. To do this you must answer three questions. What important information is contained in the Bible? Who is its author? Why should we study it?'

His speech differed from Brother Timothy's meandering manner. He spoke absolutely simply, plainly navigating short propositions. Artyom was at first surprised by this, but then he looked from side to side and saw that the majority of people there were only able to understand words like this, and the pink-cheeked Timothy had no more effect on them than the walls or the table. Meanwhile, the grey-haired preacher informed them that G.o.d's truth lay in the Bible: who He is and which were His laws. After that he turned to the second question and told them that the Bible was written by about forty different people over 1600 years and they were all inspired by G.o.d.

'That's why,' the elder concluded, 'the author of the Bible isn't a person but it is G.o.d, living in the heavens. And now, answer me this, brothers, why do we need to study the Bible?'

And, not waiting for the brothers to answer, he explained it himself: 'Because to know G.o.d and to do His will is a pledge of your eternal future. Not everyone will be pleased that you are studying the Bible,' he warned, 'but don't let anyone prevent you!' He cast a stern look around the congregation.

There was a moment's silence and then the old man, having taken a sip of water, continued: 'My second lesson to you, brothers, is about who G.o.d is. So, give me an answer to these three questions: Who is the true G.o.d and what is His name? What are His most important qualities? What is the right way to wors.h.i.+p Him?'

Someone from the crowd had wanted to answer one of the questions but he was thrown furious looks and John indifferently started to answer the questions himself: 'People wors.h.i.+p many things. But in the Bible it says there is only one G.o.d. He created everything in heaven and on earth. And since he gave us life, we must wors.h.i.+p Him alone. What is the name of the true G.o.d?' cried the aged man after a pause.

'Jehovah!' The crowd burst out with one voice.

Artyom looked from side to side warily.

'The true name of G.o.d is Jehovah!' the preacher confirmed. 'He has lots of t.i.tles but one name. Remember the name of our G.o.d and don't call him by his t.i.tles like a coward but straight, by name! Who will tell me now, what is the main quality of our G.o.d?'

Artyom thought that he would now see that there was someone vaguely educated in the crowd who could answer such a question. And standing nearby, a serious-looking young man put his hand up to answer but the old man beat him to it.

'The nature of Jehovah is revealed in the Bible! And His main qualities are love, justice, wisdom and strength. It is said in the Bible that G.o.d is merciful, kind, ready to forgive, magnanimous and patient. We, like obedient children, should be like Him in every way.'

What he said caused no objection amongst the congregation, and the aged man, stroking his magnificent beard, asked, 'So tell me how should we wors.h.i.+p our G.o.d Jehovah? Jehovah says that we should only wors.h.i.+p Him. We must not revere images, pictures, symbols and pray to them! Our G.o.d will not share his glory with someone else! Images are powerless to help us!' the voice rumbled threateningly.

The crowd murmured approvingly and Brother Timothy turned his joyful, radiant face to Artyom and said, 'Elder John is a great orator, and thanks to him our brotherhood is growing with every day, and the community of followers of the true faith is spreading!'

Artyom smiled bitterly. The ardent speech of Elder John did not have the same fiery effect on him as it had on the rest of them. But maybe it was worth listening some more?

'For my third lesson I will tell you about Jesus Christ,' said the old man. 'And here are three questions: Why is Jesus Christ called the first-born son of G.o.d? Why did He come to the earth as a person? What would Jesus do in the near future?'

Then it became clear that Jesus was called the first-born son of G.o.d because he was the first creation of G.o.d, an embodiment on earth of the holy spirit and he lived in heaven. Artyom was very surprised by this - he'd only seen the sky once before, on that fateful day at the Botanical Gardens. Someone had once told him that there may be life up there in the stars. Was that what the preacher was talking about?

Then Elder John explained: 'But who among you will tell me why Jesus Christ, the son of G.o.d, came to the earth?' And he paused dramatically.

Now Artyom had started to realize what was going on around him, and it became clear that those present belonged to the ranks of the converted and they had been coming to these lectures for some time. Veterans of these lessons never made attempts to answer the elder's questions whereas the new initiates were trying to show their knowledge and eagerness, crying out answers and waving their hands but only until the old man explained it all himself.

'When Adam didn't follow G.o.d's command, he became the first person to commit what the Bible calls a sin,' the elder began from afar. 'Therefore G.o.d sentenced Adam to death. And gradually Adam grew old and died, but he transferred his sin to his children and therefore we also get older and become ill and die. And then G.o.d sent his first-born son, so he could teach man about G.o.d's truth, and in his pure example, he showed people an example, and he sacrificed his life to free humankind from sin and death.'

This idea seemed very strange to Artyom. Why was it necessary to punish all men with death in order to later sacrifice your only son so that everything would be returned to its original state? How could that be if He was omnipotent?

'Jesus returned to heaven, resurrected. Later G.o.d called him king. Soon Jesus will wipe all evil and suffering from the earth!' the old man promised. 'But we'll speak about this after praying, my brothers!'

Obediently inclined heads gathered and joined in the sacrament of prayer. Artyom bathed in the many-voiced buzz from which separate words could not be distinguished, but the general sense made itself clear. After five minutes of prayer, the brothers began to exchange words briskly, apparently worrying about the arrival of the holy spirit.

Something wasn't sitting right within Artyom. He had a nagging feeling but he decided to stay there for a while because it might be that the most convincing part of the lecture lay ahead.

'And the fourth lesson I will give to you is about the Devil.' And looking around him with a gloomy and d.a.m.ning look, the elder warned, 'Are you all ready for this? Are you brothers strong enough in spirit to know about this?'

Then it was absolutely necessary to answer but Artyom couldn't get a sound out of himself. How could he know if he was sufficiently strong in spirit if he wasn't clear what this was all about anyway?

'And so here are three questions: Where did Satan come from? How does Satan betray people? Why is it necessary for us to resist the Devil?'

Artyom let most of the answer to these questions fly past his ears, distracted by the thought of where he was and how he was going to get out of here. He only heard that the main sin of the Devil was that he wanted people to wors.h.i.+p him, which was a privilege for G.o.d alone. And he also wondered if it was really true that G.o.d was really concerned with each of his followers, and was there one person who is utterly devoted to G.o.d?

The language of the aged man now seemed to Artyom frighteningly official and addressed questions that were inappropriate for discussion. From time to time, Brother Timothy looked over at him attentively, searching Artyom's face for the spark of imminent enlightenment but Artyom was just becoming gloomier and gloomier.

'Satan deceives people so they will wors.h.i.+p him,' the aged man was saying in the meantime. 'And there are three ways in which he does this: false religion, spiritism and nationalism. If a religion teaches lies about G.o.d, it is serving Satan's purposes. Adherents of false religions might easily think that they are wors.h.i.+pping the true G.o.d but in reality they are wors.h.i.+pping Satan. Spiritism is when people call upon spirits to protect them, to harm others, to predict the future, and to perform miracles. Behind each of these actions is the evil force of the Devil!' The old man's voice was shaking from hatred and disgust. 'And apart from that, Satan deceives people by inciting nationalistic pride within them and inducing them to wors.h.i.+p political organizations,' the elder warned them with an upraised finger. 'People think that their race or nation is superior to others. But it isn't true.'