"The Watches are run by the Inquisition," I said. "It doesn't settle disputes, it doesn't punish renegades, it runs things. It gives permission for one social experiment or another, it appoints and removes the leaders… it transfers them from Uzbekistan to Moscow… There's one Inquisition, with two operational agencies. The Night Watch and the Day Watch. And the Inquisition's only goal is to maintain the existing status quo. Because victory for the Dark Ones or the Light Ones means defeat for the Others in general."

"And what else, Anton?" Gesar asked.

I shrugged.

"What else? Nothing else. People get on with their little human lives and enjoy their little human joys. They feed us with their bodies… and provide new Others. The Others who are less ambitious live almost ordinary lives. Only their lives are more prosperous, more healthier, and longer than ordinary people's. Those who just can't live without excitement, who long for battles and adventures, a struggle for exalted ideals-they join the Watches. The ones who are disillusioned with the Watches join the Inquisition."

"And…?" Gesar asked, encouraging me to continue.

"What are you doing in the Night Watch, boss?" I asked. "Aren't you sick of it yet… after thousands of years?"

"Let's just say that after all this time I still enjoy battles and adventures," Gesar said. "Eh?"

I shook my head. "No, Boris Ignatievich, I don't believe you. I've seen you when you're… different. Too weary. Too disillusioned."

"Then let's assume that I'd really like to finish off Zabulon," Gesar said calmly.

I thought for a second. "That's not it, either. In hundreds of years one of you would have finished off the other already. Zabulon said that fighting with magic is like swordplay. Well, you're not fighting with swords, you're fencing with sports rapiers. You claim a hit, but you don't make a hole in your opponent."

Gesar nodded and paused before speaking. Another dense stream of tobacco smoke joined the blue-gray cloud. "What do you think, Anton, is it possible to live for thousands of years and still feel the same pity for people?"

"Pity?" I queried.

Gesar nodded.

"Precisely pity. Not love-it's beyond our power to love the entire world. And not admiration-we know only too well what human beings are like."

"It probably is possible to pity them," I said and nodded. "But what good is your pity, boss? It's pointless, barren. Others don't make the human world any better."

"We do, Anton. We do, no matter how bad things still are. Trust an old man who's seen a lot."

"But even so…"

"I'm waiting for a miracle, Anton."

I looked at Gesar quizzically.

"I don't know exactly what kind of miracle. For all people to acquire the abilities of Others. For all Others to become human again. For a day when the dividing line won't run between Other and human being, but between good and bad." Gesar smiled gently. "I have absolutely no idea how anything of the sort could ever happen and if it ever will. But if it ever does… I prefer to be on the side of the Night Watch. And not the Inquisition-the mighty, clever, correct, all-powerful Inquisition."

"Maybe Zabulon's waiting for the same thing?"

Gesar nodded. "Maybe. I don't know. But better an old enemy you know than a young, unpredictable freak. You can call me a conservative, but I prefer rapiers with Zabulon to baseball bats with a progressive Dark Magician."

"And what would you advise me to do?"

Gesar shrugged and spread his hands. "What advice would I give you? Make up your own mind. You can get out and lead an ordinary life. You can join the Inquisition… I won't object if you do. Or you can stay in the Night Watch."

"And wait?"

"And wait. Preserve the part of you that's still human. Avoid falling into ecstatic raptures and trying to impose the Light on people when they don't want it. Avoid relapsing into contemptuous cynicism and imagining that you are pure and perfect. That's the hardest thing of all-never to become cynical, never to lose faith, never to become indifferent."

"Not a huge choice…" I said.

"Ha!" Gesar said, smiling. "Just be glad that there's any choice at all."

The suburbs of Saratov flitted by outside the windows. The train was slowing down.

I was sitting in an empty compartment and watching the spinning pointer.

Kostya was still following us.

What was he expecting?

Arbenin's voice sang in the earphones:

From deception to deception

Only manna pours down from the sky.

From siesta to siesta

They feed us only manifestoes.

Some have gone, some have left.

I have only made a choice.

And I sense it with my back:

We are different, we are other.

I shook my head. It should be "We are Others." But even if we were to disappear, people would still be divided into people and Others. No matter how those Others were different.

People can't get by without Others. Put two people on an uninhabited island, and you'll have a human being and an Other. And the difference is that an Other is always tormented by his differentness. It's easier for people. They know they're people, and that's what they ought to be. And they all have no choice but to be that way. All of them, forever.

We stand in the center,

We blaze like a fire on an ice-floe

And try to warm ourselves,

Disguising the means with the goal.

Burning through to our souls

In meditative solitude.

The door opened and Gesar came into the compartment. I pulled the earphones out of my ears.

"Look." Gesar put his palm-held computer on the table. There was a dot crawling across the map on the screen-our train. Gesar glanced at the compass, nodded, and confidently marked a thick line on the screen with his stylus.

"What's that?" I asked, looking at the square that Kostya's trajectory was heading for. I guessed the answer myself: "An airport?"

"Precisely. He's not hoping for negotiations." Gesar laughed. "He's making a dash straight for the airport."

"Is it military?"

"No, civilian. But what's the difference? He has the piloting templates."

I nodded. For "backup" all operational agents carried a collection of useful skills-driving a car, flying a plane or a helicopter, emergency medical assistance, martial arts… Of course the template didn't provide perfect skills; an experienced driver would overtake an Other with a driving template, a good doctor would operate far more skillfully. But Kostya could get any kind of aircraft into the air.

"Surely that's a good thing," I said. "We'll scramble the jet fighters and…"

"What if there are passengers?" Gesar asked sharply.

"It's still better than the train," I said in a quiet voice. "Fewer casualties."

And that very moment I felt an odd twinge of pain somewhere deep inside. It was the first time I'd ever weighed human casualties on the invisible scales of expediency and decided one pan was lighter than the other.

"That's no good…" said Gesar, and then added, "Fortunately. What does he care if the plane's destroyed? He'll just transform into a bat and fly down."

The station platform appeared outside the window. The locomotive blew its whistle as it slowed to a halt at the station.

"Ground-to-air nuclear missiles," I said stubbornly.

Gesar looked at me in amazement. "Where from? The nuclear warheads were all removed ages ago. Except for the air defense units around Moscow… but he won't go to Moscow."

"Where will he go?" I asked expectantly.

"How should I know? It's your job to make sure he doesn't get anywhere," Gesar snapped. "That's it! He's stopped!"

I looked at the compass. The distance between us and Kostya had started to increase. He'd been flying in the form of a bat, or running along in the form of the Gray Wolf from the fairytale, but now he'd stopped.