"I can imagine."

"Anton, I can't handle him. And Zabulon can't handle him. Or Svetlana. The only thing we can do now is feed Power to you. We're drawing Power from all the Others in Moscow. If necessary, we'll start taking it directly from people. There's no time to regroup and use different magicians as channels. You have to stop Kostya… with our help. The alternative is a nuclear strike at Baikonur."

"I won't be able to open a direct portal, Gesar."

"Yes you will. The portal still hasn't closed completely, you need to find the opening and reactivate it."

"Gesar, don't overestimate me. Even with your Power, I'm still a second-level magician!"

"Anton, use your head. You were standing in front of Saushkin when he recited the spell. You're not second-level any longer."

"Then what level am I?"

"There's only one level above first-Higher Magician. Enough talking, get after him!"

"But how am I going to defeat him?"

"Any way you like."

I opened my eyes.

Las was standing in front of me and waving his hand in front of my face.

"Oh! Still alive!" he said, delighted. "So what is this Watch? And do you mean to say I'm a magician too now?"

"Almost." I took a step forward.

This was where Kostya had been standing… he fell… parted his hands… the portal appeared.

In the human world-nothing.

Just the wind blowing, the crumpled cellophane cover from a pack of cigarettes rustling over the concrete…

In the Twilight-nothing.

Gray gloom, stone monoliths instead of buildings, the rustling tendrils of the blue moss…

In the second layer of the Twilight.

Dense, leaden mist… a dead, spectral light from behind heavy clouds… a small blue spark where the portal had been…

I reached out my hand- in the human world,

in the first level of the Twilight,

in the second level of the Twilight…

And I caught the fading blue spark in my fingers.

Wait. Don't go out. Here's Power for you-a raging torrent of energy, rupturing the boundary between worlds. Streaming from my fingers in drops of fire-onto the fading embers…

Grow, unfold, creep out into the bright light of day-there's still work for you to do! I can sense the trace left by the one who opened the portal. I can see how he did it. I'll be able to follow his path.

And I don't even need any incantations-all those funny formulas in obscure ancient languages-just as the witch Arina didn't need them when she brewed her potions, just as Gesar and Svetlana don't need them.

So this is what it's like to be a Higher Magician!

Not to learn formulas by heart, but to feel the movement of Power!

How incredible… and how simple.

It wasn't just a matter of new abilities, of a fireball with increased casualty capability or a more powerful Freeze. If he's pumped full of Power from outside or has accumulated a large reserve of his own, any ordinary magician can lash out hard enough to make a Higher Magician feel it. It was a matter of freedom. Like the difference between even the most talented swimmer and the laziest dolphin.

How difficult it must have been for Svetlana to live with me, forgetting about her Power, about her freedom. This wasn't just the difference between strength and weakness-it was the difference between a healthy person and an invalid.

But ordinary people managed to live, didn't they? And they lived with the blind and the paralyzed. Because, after all, freedom was not the most important thing. Freedom was the excuse used by scoundrels and fools. When they said "freedom," they weren't thinking about other people's freedom, only about their own bondage.

And even Kostya, who was neither a fool nor a scoundrel, had been caught on the same hook that had torn the lips of revolutionaries of every breed-from Spartacus to Trotsky, from Citizen Robespierre to Comandante Che Guevara, from Emelyan Pugachev to the Unknown Soldier.

Surely I would have been caught on it myself? Ten or even five years earlier?

If someone had told me, "You can change everything at a single stroke-and for the better?"

Perhaps I'd been lucky.

At least with the people I'd had around me, who had always shaken their heads in doubt at the words "freedom and equality."

The portal opened up in front of me-a blue prism with glowing filaments, a glittering, faceted membrane…

I parted the filaments with my hands and entered.

Chapter 7

The bad thing about portals is that there's no way to prepare yourself for what's at the other end. In this sense a train is ideal. You go into your compartment, change your trousers for track-suit bottoms and your shoes for rubber sandals, take out your food and drink, and get to know your traveling companions- if you happen to be traveling on your own, that is. The wheels drum on the rails, the platform slips away. And that's it, you're on your way. You're a different person. You share your most intimate experiences with strangers, you argue about politics, although you swore you never would again, you drink the dubious vodka bought at one of the stops. You're neither here nor there. You're on your way. You're on your own little quest, and there's a bit of Frodo Baggins in you, and a bit of Verne's Paganel, and just a tiny drop of Robinson Crusoe, and a smidgeon of Radishchev. Maybe your journey will only last a few hours, or maybe a few days. It's a big country slipping past the windows of your compartment. You're not there. You're not here. You're a traveler.

A plane is a bit different. But you still prepare yourself for the journey. You buy a ticket, you wake up at first light, get into a taxi and drive to the airport. The wheels measure out the miles, but you're already looking up at the sky; in your mind you're already there, in the plane. The nervous hassle of the airport lounge, instant coffee in the buffet, the baggage check, the security check and-if you're leaving the country- the customs and the duty-free shop, all the small joys of travel before the narrow seats in the plane, the roar of the turbines and the optimistic gabble of the air hostess: "The emergency exits are located…" And then the ground has already fallen away, the seatbelt signs have been switched off, the smokers have snuck off guiltily to the restrooms and the hostesses have considerately ignored them, the meal in the plastic tray is handed out-for some reason on planes everyone stuffs themselves. It's not exactly a journey. It's a relocation. But you still see the cities and rivers drifting past and leaf through a guidebook or check the bookings for your business trip, wondering about the best way to handle the business negotiations, or the best way to enjoy a ten-day tourist trip to hospitable Turkey-Spain-Croatia. And you're on your way.

But a portal is a shock. A portal is a sudden change of scenery, a revolving stage in a theater. You're here, then you're there. No journey.

And no time to think about anything either.

… I tumbled out of the portal. One foot struck a tiled floor, the other went straight into a toilet bowl.

At least it was a perfectly clean toilet bowl. Like in a respectable American film, where the characters waste each other in the John. But anyway, I pulled my foot back out, wincing in pain as I did so.

A tiny cubicle with a little lamp and a grille on the ceiling and a roll of toilet tissue on a holder. A fine portal this was! Somehow I'd been expecting Kostya to run it straight to the launch pad, close to the foot of the rocket.

I opened the door, still wincing in pain, and peeped out cautiously through the crack. The restroom seemed to be empty. Not a sound, apart from a tap running in one of the washbasins…

Just then I was struck hard in the back and thrown out of the cubicle, pushing the door open with my head leading the way. I rolled over onto my back and flung my hand up, ready to strike.