People dressed in long, grey robes made of dense cloth sat at stout wooden tables that stood in the middle of the station. Drawing nearer to them, Artyom was surprised to see their temples were tattooed as well, but not with the image of a bird, but with that of an open book on a background of several vertical lines that bore a resemblance to a colonnade. Catching Artyom’s intent look, one of the men seated at the table smiled amiably and asked:

‘Are you a newcomer? Is this your first time here?’

Artyom flinched at the word ‘newcomer,’ but pulled himself together and nodded. The man who had spoken was not much older than Artyom and, when he rose to shake Artyom’s hand, working the flat of his hand out from the broad sleeve of the robe, it turned out they were of about the same height. Only the man’s physique was more delicate.

Artyom’s new acquaintance was called Daniel. He was in no hurry to talk about himself, and it was evident that he had decided to talk to Artyom because he was curious about what went on beyond the limits of Polis, about what was new on the Ring, and about any news of the fascists and the reds…

In half an hour, they were seated in the spindly Daniel’s home, in one of the ‘apartments’ nestled between arches, and were drinking hot tea, certainly brought here by devious routes from VDNKh. Of the furniture in the room, there was a table piled with books, tall iron shelves that reached to the ceiling, also crammed to the top with thick volumes, and a bed. A weak electric bulb dangled from the ceiling on a wire, illuminating a skilfully executed drawing of an enormous ancient temple that Artyom did not immediately recognize as the Library erected on the surface somewhere above Polis.

After his host had run out of questions, it was Artyom’s turn.

‘Why do people here have tattoos on their heads?’ he asked.

‘What, don’t you know anything about castes?’ said Daniel, surprised. ‘And you’ve never heard of Polis Council?’

Artyom suddenly remembered that someone (no, how could he forget? it was that old man, Mikhail Porfirievich, who had been killed by the fascists) had told him that power in Polis was divided between the soldiers and the librarians because, formerly, the buildings of the Library and some organization related to the army had stood on the surface.

‘I’ve heard of it!’ he nodded. ‘The warriors and librarians. So, then, you’re a librarian?’

Daniel shot him a frightened glance, paled, and began to cough. After a while, he pulled himself together and calmly said:

‘What do you mean “librarian”? Have you so much as seen a living librarian? I wouldn’t recommend it! Librarians sit up above… You’ve seen our fortifications down here? Heaven forbid they come down… Don’t ever confuse these things. I am not a librarian, I am a guardian. We are also called Brahmins.’

‘What kind of strange name is that?’ asked Artyom, raising his eyebrows.

‘You see, we have something of a caste system here. Like in old India. A caste… Well, it’s like a class… Didn’t the reds explain that to you? Never mind. There’s a caste of priests, or guardians of knowledge, those who collect books and work with them,’ he explained, while Artyom continued to marvel at how painstakingly he avoided the word ‘librarian’. ‘And there’s a warrior caste, of those who protect and defend. It’s very similar to India, where there was also a caste of merchants and a caste of servants. We have all that, too. And we also use the Hindu names for them among ourselves. The priests are the Brahmins, the soldiers are the kshatriyas, the merchants are the vaishyas, and the servants are the shudras. People become members of a caste once and for the rest of their lives. There are special rites of passage, especially for kshatriyas and Brahmins. In India, it was a tribal matter, ancestral, but with us, it’s something you choose yourself when you turn eighteen. Here at Borovitskaya, there are more Brahmins; in fact, almost everyone is a Brahmin. Our school is here, our libraries, and cells. There are special conditions at the Library because the Red Line crosses there, and it must be protected, and before the war, there were more of us there. Now they’ve moved to Aleksandrovskiy Sad. Meanwhile, at Arbatskaya, it’s nearly all kshatriyas, because of the General Staff.’

Hearing yet another hissed ancient Indian word, Artyom sighed heavily. It was unlikely he’d remember all these difficult titles right off. However, Daniel did not pay attention to this and continued his narrative:

‘Obviously, only two castes enter into the Council, ours and the kshatriyas, though as a matter of fact, we just call them “war doggies”,’ he said to Artyom, with a wink.

‘So why do they tattoo two-headed birds on themselves?’ asked Artyom. ‘You, at least, have books. That makes sense. But birds?’

‘That’s their totem,’ said Brahmin Daniel, and shrugged. ‘I think that formerly it was a guardian spirit of the radiological defence forces. An eagle, I believe. After all, they believe in some strange thing of their own. Generally speaking, the castes around here don’t get along particularly well. There was a time they even feuded.’

Through the blinds, they could see that the station lights had been dimmed. Local night was falling. Artyom started to gather his things.

‘Is there a hotel here where I can spend the night? Because I have a meeting tomorrow at nine at Arbatskaya, and I’ve nowhere to stay.’

‘If you want, stay here,’ said Daniel, shrugging. ‘I’ll sleep on the floor, I’m used to it. I was just about to prepare dinner. Stay and you’ll tell me what else you’ve seen along the road. Because, you know, I don’t ever get away from this place. The guardian vows do not allow us to travel further than one station.’

After thinking about it, Artyom nodded. It was comfortable and warm in the room, and Artyom had taken a liking to his host from the very beginning. They had something in common. In fifteen minutes, he was already cleaning mushrooms, while Daniel was cutting salt pork into small slices.

‘Have you ever seen the Library even once with your own eyes?’ asked Artyom, his mouth full. They were eating stewed pork with mushrooms from aluminium mess dishes.

‘You mean the Great Library?’ asked the Brahmin, dourly.

‘I mean the one up there… It’s still there, right?’ said Artyom, pointing his fork at the ceiling.

‘Only our elders go up into to the Great Library. And the stalkers, too, who work for the Brahmins,’ answered Daniel.

‘So, they’re the ones who bring books down from above? From the Library? I mean, from the Great Library,’ Artyom said, hurriedly correcting himself as he saw his host scowl once more.

‘They do, but only by order of the caste elders. It is not within our power to do so ourselves, so we must use mercenaries,’ the Brahmin explained grudgingly. ‘According to the Testament, we should have been doing that, preserving knowledge and imparting it to seekers. But in order for knowledge to be imparted, it must first be obtained. Yet who among us will dare to go in there?’ he said, lifting his eyes upward with a sigh.

‘Because of the radiation?’ said Artyom, comprehending.

‘That too. But mainly because of the librarians,’ said Daniel in a subdued voice.

‘But aren’t you the librarians? Or, at least, the descendants of the librarians? That’s what I’ve heard.’

‘You know? Let’s not talk about this at the table. In fact, let someone else explain it to you. I don’t like to talk about this subject, really.’

Daniel started to clear the table and then, after thinking for a moment, moved some books from a shelf off to the side, revealing a gap between the volumes standing in the back row, in which a round-bellied bottle of moonshine gleamed. Table glasses were found among the dishware.

After some time, Artyom, who had been examining the shelves with delight, decided to break the silence.