Suddenly, it dawned upon Sapta that the day became the base for the second life of the Kingdom, and the spark of hope filled with warmth, goodwill and the future.

- Let him go - suddenly he said aloofly without addressing anybody.

*

The storm covered the half of the Atlantic. The plane was carefully avoiding grandiose storm clouds. Through the window, in rays of light, one could see bright sparks of the infinite blue ocean. They were changing, huge whitecaps which disappeared in ten minutes without a trace.

The history of mankind passed like those huge shafts. Every ten years there appeared a shaft gaining its highest level, and like a strong terrible storm the tops turned into the violent white foam, to make some noise and to turn into calm waters.

The entire human race can be placed in a one big city. Influence of the Adam sons alike an insignificant thin layer of the almost invisible the surface over of the globe. It will always happen and a man will never be able to leave that wave, the finest plane compressed between the truth and the lie, wealth and poverty, power and goodness, and birth and murder of demons and angels. They give incredible strength, stars energy, love, and the first cries of a newborn for the creation of this fragile sphere contradicting the whole mental shalmeser to the chaos, famine and death to a man could say the key word between the heaven and the earth. And when you assume that does not yours, simplify more complex and moral beings, measuring everybody against your own yardstick, this finest sphere becomes thin, simpler, there emerge moral holes, leading to degradation, mass drunkenness and vices. And only return yourself to the inner moral imperative, moral idealism, cleansing yourselves of the internal crimes can recover and stop the destruction of the thinnest life layer.

"Do not kill" - thought Colonel. "The death, having punished itself cruelly kills pity and punishes beautiful earthly creatures sophisticatedly and ruthlessly. The human mass murders or emasculation of the multi-structural life always leads to irreversible consequences which can not be restored even by the gods. You can not be the only element, and build the universe with it. The world is built on many multi-level components. An attempt to get the death is alike a feeble effort to privatize the power of the world. It always leads to the bitter futility.

Part 2

Already in the afternoon, together with Thomas they reached Wurzburg. Having driven for an hour by taxi along the highway, they found a neat house of Uncle Rosenberg. Colonel rang the bell. There was silence.

- How old is he? - Asked Thomas.

- Ninety-six - muttered Dux.

- Du bist Schwanz - angrily muttered Thomas. - Come on.

- Wait a minute.

They have been sitting for ten minutes on the porch, swinging their legs. The silence was finally interrupted by a click and a hoarse cough. A senile cracking voice drawled with "o" said:

- Rosenberg.

- It's neighbor from the street in Kirov - bleated Colonel in a youthful voice in Russian. - I'm from countryside.

- I told you, you are Schwanz – Dux turned to Thomas with the widest happy smile.

Finally, from the darkened corridor came Uncle Rosenberg.

- Rona!

Dux in his joy hugged Uncle Rosenberg so strong, that something cracked at the last and he struggled for breath.

- Rona, you've always been an asshole.

Colonel realized that Uncle Rosenberg, firstly, didn’t see anything and secondly, that his only identification was Rona. That’s why Dux decided not to dispel allusions. In a childhood, Rona was a lucid mind, with a sense of humor, creative. He was the first in the village, who began eating ground squirrels’ meat living in his garden. Rona extirpated the rodents feeding the neighbors. Once, late at night he came covered in blood. Lilka, having seen him in the moonlight, stood still:

- I killed a man - said Rona.

She fainted away.

Neighbors came. It turned out that Rona smeared with the chicken blood. The neighbor Uncle Rosenberg then made a demonstration of the corporal punishment.

Men sat in the kitchen. Uncle Rosenberg hardly put a kettle in the curtained off darkened kitchen.

- And how is Sasha Steinbrecher?

- He put on weight.

- And what about Webers?

- These two died.

- Is it true that Kock got so drunk at the final rehearsal that the whole village went almost mad, listening for the whole night a speech of the famous Bulgakov's plays?

- Yes, it’s true!

- Uncle Rosenberg, I'm on business.

The old man poured everybody tea and took put of the pack some tasty pretzels with saffron.

- Do you have the relative in Germany who knows a lot about Nibiru. Help me to meet him.

Uncle Rosenberg's changed countenance, kept silent for a long time, and then crackling giggled.

- It's a fairy tale.

- Okay, we'll go.

Uncle Rosenberg took out thick round glasses and suddenly became serious. He began to observe attentively those kids.

- And you're not Rona.

- I’m a friend of Rona.

- Are you Russian?

- I’m a Chinese man!

Uncle Rosenberg giggled.

- Who is that?

- Thomas - sadly muttered Dux.

- Why is he silent?

- He is a German from Munich.

- Schwanzverlenger – coughed the skeleton.

The Germans started speaking on their native impossible Munich dialect, having begun to guff and hissing the sounds "ich" and "isch".

- Well, let's go!

Friends bowed and went out to the porch. Acacia was heady blooming and bumblebees flew slowly like thick kiddies. They hardly began to close the small art history gate, when suddenly they heard the unique voice of Uncle Rosenberg, like the old violin with one string. They both plunged into darkness, where smelled blue pots of aloe vera from pain.

- I'll help you.

*

Colonel and Thomas began telling their ideas. Thomas was saying long words, such as “Herzkreislaufwiederbelebung” and Colonel tried to simplify in vain his speech with the people's fragmentary German.

- Yes, I don’t, actually, understand the science - said Uncle Rosenberg. - Come on.

They proceeded to the dark bedroom. There was only an iron bed, and there was nothing on the walls except the big ancient embroidery. There was a plan with a Gothic inscription on it: “die Kolonie Schaffhausen”. Uncle Rosenberg took out from under the bed a suitcase "Samsonite" a solid dark blue American trunk of the last century. He began taking out of it different things, like a fakir, and he seemed to forget about the visitors. Uncle Rosenberg took out, for example, a brown leather hat with a wide brim and with rhinestones, a bag with a 9-mm cartridges, a Mauser 712, with the monogram "Schwarz" on the handle, the bonds of the USSR of 1952, 1954 and 1956 of 25 rubles. Colonel and Thomas with great interest were looking at that. Finally, Uncle Rosenberg took out a yellowed parchment with water marks. Probably, it was an address.

- Let's go!

*

The night was falling. Taxi was driving around Würzburg and drove at the highway seven. A Mercedes nestled up to the ideal concrete, like a cumulative projectile. German iron soul opened than the conceivable limits of man and car at a speed of two hundred and forty kilometers per hour. And only on turns our ears were slightly blocked, flashed lights, villages and cities. We drove in silence, and only Uncle Rosenberg, who was sitting on the passenger’s front seat, sometimes spoke about everything with the driver. At night the car left the motorway to Augsburg to the eighth and began dodging along the fabulous copses of Swabia, lit by the large full moon.

- Here we are, - Uncle Rosenberg said in a low bass.