'And if you're lazy, you'll spend the rest of your life as a junior yard-keeper!' I heard Las say. His machine set off, twirling its brushes merrily, turning circles on the tarmac surface. Before my eyes a yard that was already clean acquired an entirely sterile appearance.
Well, would you believe it!
So Las worked as a yard-keeper in the Assol complex, did he?
I tried to withdraw unobtrusively, so as not to embarrass him. But he had already spotted me, and he drove closer, waving his hand gleefully. The brushes started turning less vigorously.
'So you work here then?' I asked. I suddenly started having the most fantastic ideas – Las didn't live in Assol at all, he'd simply moved into an empty apartment for a while. There was no way anyone with a huge residence like that would go cleaning the yard!
'I earn a bit on the side,' Las explained calmly. 'It's good fun, I'm telling you! Ride round the yard for an hour in the morning, instead of your morning exercises, and they pay you wages for it. And not bad wages either.'
I didn't say anything.
'Do you like going on the rides in the park?' Las asked me. 'All those buggies, where you have to pay ten dollars for three minutes? Well, here they pay you the money. To enjoy yourself. Or take those computer games . . . sitting there, twitching that joystick about . . .'
'It all depends on whether they make you paint the fence . . .' I muttered.
'That's right,' Las agreed happily. 'But they don't make me do that. I get the same sort of buzz cleaning up the yard as Leo Tolstoy did from scything hay. Only no one has to wash it all again after me – unlike the count, whose peasants used to finish the job for him . . . I'm in their good books here, I get a regular bonus. So, do you fancy riding around too? I could get you a job, if you like. The professional yard-keepers just can't get the hang of this technical equipment.'
'I'll think about it,' I said, examining the briskly spinning brushes, the water spurting out of the nickel-plated nozzles, the gleaming cabin. Back when we were kids, which of us didn't want to drive a street-washing truck? Now, of course, after early childhood kids start dreaming about working as a banker or a hit man . . .
'Okay, think it over, but I've got work to do,' Las said amiably. And the machine set off round the yard, sweeping, washing and sucking up dirt. I heard singing from the cabin:
The generation of yard-keepers and watchmen
Have lost each other in the vast expanse of winter . . .
They've all gone back home now.
In our time, when every third man is a hero,
They don't write articles,
They don't send telegrams . . .
Dumbfounded, I went back to the lobby. I found out from the security guard where Assol's own post office was located and set off. The post office was open: there were three young female employees sitting behind the counter in the cosy little shop, and the postbox where the letter had been sent was standing right there.
The glass eyes of video cameras glittered just below the ceiling.
We could certainly use some professional investigators. They would have come up with this idea straight away.
I bought a postcard of a young chick jumping up and down in the tray of an incubator with the printed message 'I miss my family!' Not very amusing, but in any case I couldn't remember the mailing address of the village where my family was on holiday, so, with a mischievous smile, I sent the postcard to Gesar at home – I did know his address.
I chatted to the girls for a while – working in such an elite residential complex, they had to be polite, but on top of that they were bored – then left the post office and went to the security department on the first floor.
If I'd been able to use my abilities as an Other, I would have simply implanted in the security guards' minds the idea that they liked me – then I'd have been given access to all the video recordings. But I couldn't reveal who I was. And so I decided to employ the most universal motive for liking anyone – money.
Out of the money I'd been given I put together a hundred dollars in roubles– well, no one could expect more than that, could they? I entered the duty office, and there was a young guy in a formal suit, looking bored.
'Good day!' I greeted him, smiling radiantly.
The security man's expression indicated complete solidarity with my opinion concerning the quality of the day. I cast a quick sideways glance at the monitors in front of him – they showed images from at least ten television cameras. And he had to be able to call up a repeat run of any particular moment. If the images were saved to a hard disk (where else could they be saved?), then a recording from three days earlier might not have been transferred to the archive yet.
'I have a problem,' I said. 'Yesterday I received a rather amusing letter . . .' – I winked at him – 'from some girl. She lives here too, as far as I can tell.'
'A threatening letter?' the security man asked, pricking up his ears.
'No, no!' I protested. 'On the contrary . . . But my mysterious stranger is trying to remain incognito. Could I take a look to see who posted letters at the post office three days ago?'
The security man started thinking about it.
And then I spoiled everything. I put the money on the desk and said with a smile:
'I'd be very grateful to you . . .'
The young guy instantly turned to stone. I think he pressed something with his foot.
And ten seconds later two of his colleagues appeared, both extremely polite – which looked pretty funny, given their impressive dimensions – and insistently invited me to come in and see their boss.
There is after all a difference, and a serious one, between dealing with state officials and a private security firm.
It would have been interesting to see if they would have taken me to their boss by force. After all, they weren't the militia. But I thought it best not to aggravate the situation any further and did as my suited escorts asked.
The head of security looked at me reproachfully. He was already advanced in years and had clearly come from the agencies of state security.
'What were you thinking of, Mr Gorodetsky,' he said, holding up my pass to the Assol grounds, 'behaving as if you were in a state institution – if you'll pardon the expression?'
I got the impression that what he really wanted to do was snap my pass in two, call the guards and order them to throw me out of the elite complex.
I felt like saying I was sorry and I wouldn't do it again. Especially since I really was feeling ashamed.
Only that was the desire of the Light Magician Anton Gorodetsky, not of Mr A. Gorodetsky, the owner of a small firm trading in milk products.
'What exactly is the problem?' I asked. 'If it's not possible to do as I requested, they should have said so.'
'And what was the money for?' the head of security queried.
'What money?' I asked in surprise. 'Ah . . .your colleague thought I was offering him money?'
The head of security smiled.
'Absolutely not!' I said firmly. 'I wanted to get my handkerchief out of my pocket. My hay fever's really killing me today. And there was a load of small change in there, so I put it on the desk . . . but I didn't even get time to blow my nose.'
I think I overdid it a bit.
The stony-faced boss held out my pass and said very politely:
'The incident is closed. I'm sure you understand, Mr Gorodetsky, that private individuals are not permitted to view our security recordings.'
I sensed that what had stung the boss most was the phrase about 'small change'. Of course, he wasn't exactly poor, working in a place like that. But he wasn't so flush that he could call a hundred dollars small change.
I sighed and lowered my head.
'Forgive me for being so stupid. I really did try to offer some . . . remuneration. I've been running from one bureaucrat to another all this week, registering the firm . . . it was an automatic reflex.'
The security boss gave me a searching look. He se
emed to have softened just a bit.
'It's my fault,' I admitted. 'I was just overwhelmed by curiosity. Would you believe I couldn't sleep half the night, I kept trying to guess . . .'
'I can see you didn't sleep,' the boss said, looking at me. And he couldn't resist asking – after all, human curiosity is ubiquitous, 'What is it you're so interested in?'
'My wife and daughter are at the dacha right now,' I said. 'I'm knocking myself out, trying to get the work on the apartment finished . . . and suddenly I get this letter. Anonymous. In a woman's handwriting. And the letter . . . well, how can I put it . . . it's a kilo of flirting and half a kilo of promises. A beautiful stranger is dreaming of getting to know you, it says, but she doesn't dare take the first step. If I'm observant enough to realise who the letter's from – then all I have to do is approach her . . .'
A glint of amusement appeared in his eyes.
'And your wife's at the dacha?' he asked.
'Yes, she is,' I said with a nod. 'Don't get the wrong idea . . . I've no ambitious plans. I'd just like to find out who this stranger is.'
'Do you have the letter with you?' the boss asked.
'I threw it away immediately,' I said. 'If my wife ever set eyes on it, I'd never be able to prove that nothing happened . . .'
'When was it sent?'
'Three days ago. From our post office.'
The boss thought for a moment.
'The letters there are collected once a day, in the evening,' I said. 'I don't think too many people go in there . . . only about five or six a day. If I could just have a look . . .'
The boss shook his head and smiled.
'Yes, I understand in principle it's not allowed . . .' I said sadly. 'Can't you at least take a look, eh? Maybe there wasn't a single woman there that day, and it's my neighbour's idea of a joke. He's like that . . . the jolly type.'
'From the tenth floor, you mean?' the boss asked, frowning.
I nodded:
'You take a look . . . just tell me if there was a woman there or not.'
'This letter is compromising for you, isn't it?' the boss said.
'To some extent,' I admitted. 'As far as my wife is concerned.'
'Well, then you have grounds for viewing the recording,' the boss decided.
'Thank you very much!' I exclaimed. 'Really, thank you!'
'You see how simple everything is?' said the boss, slowly pressing a key on his computer keyboard. 'And you go getting the money out . . . what Soviet sort of way is that to behave? Just a moment . . .'
I couldn't restrain myself, I got up and stood behind his shoulder. The boss didn't object. He was pretty excited – evidently there wasn't much work for him to do in the grounds of Assol.
The image of the post office appeared on the screen, first from one corner – an excellent view of what the counter girls were doing. Then from another corner – a view of the entrance and the postbox.
'Monday. Eight in the morning,' the boss said triumphantly. 'And now what? Are we going to sit and watch the screen for twelve hours?'
'Oh, of course,' I said, pretending to be disappointed. 'I never thought of that.'
'We press a key . . . no, this one here . . . And now what do we have?'
The image started flickering rapidly.
'What?' I asked, as if I'd never designed the same kind of system for our office.
'Movement search,' the boss declared.
We had our first taker at nine-thirty in the morning. Some oriental-looking worker came into the post office and posted a whole bundle of letters.
'Not your female stranger?' the boss quipped sarcastically. And then he explained. 'That's one of the men building the second block. They're always sending letters to Tashkent . . .'
I nodded.
The second visitor came in at quarter past one; I didn't know him. A very respectable-looking gent, with a bodyguard walking behind him.
The gentleman didn't post any letters. I didn't understand why he went in at all – maybe he was eyeing up the girls, or studying the layout at Assol.
And the third one was . . . Las!
'Oh!' the boss exclaimed. 'Now that's your neighbour, the jester, isn't it? The one who sings songs at night.'
I was obviously a very poor detective . . .
'That's him . . .' I whispered. 'But would he really . . .'
'Okay, let's watch a bit more,' the security boss said, taking pity on me.
Later on, after a two-hour break, people came piling in.
Another three residents sent off envelopes of some kind. All men, all very serious-looking.
And one woman. About seventy years old. Just before closing time. Plump, wearing a sumptuous dress and huge beads in bad taste. Her sparse grey hair was set in curls.
'Surely it couldn't be her?' the boss said, delighted. He got up and slapped me on the shoulder. 'Well, is there any point in looking for your mysterious flirt?'
'It's clear enough,' I said. 'It's a wind-up.'
'Never mind, it's nothing more than a harmless joke,' the security boss consoled me. 'And a request from me to you for the future . . . don't ever make such ambiguous gestures. Never take money out, if you don't intend to pay someone.'
I hung my head.
'We're the ones who corrupt people,' the boss said bitterly. 'Do you understand? We do it ourselves. Offer someone money once, twice . . . and the third time he asks you for it. And we complain – what is all this, and where did it come from? But you're a good man, I can see the light in you.'
I gaped at the boss in amazement.
'Yes, you are a good man,' said the boss. 'I trust my instinct. I saw all sorts in twenty years in the criminal investigation department. Don't do that again, all right? Don't sow evil in the world.'
It was a long time since I'd felt so ashamed.
A Light Magician being taught not to do evil!
'I'll try,' I said, looking the boss in the eye guiltily. 'Thanks very much for your help.'
He didn't answer. His eyes had turned glassy, as vacant as a little baby's. His mouth had opened slightly. His fingers had turned white, clenched tightly around the armrests of his chair.
The freeze. A fairly simple spell, very widely used.
There was someone standing by the window behind me. I couldn't see them, but I could sense them with my back . . .
I jerked to one side as quickly as I could. But I still felt the icy breath of the power aimed at me. No, it wasn't the freeze. But it was something similar, something out of the vampire's arsenal of tricks.
The power skidded across me and sank into the unfortunate security boss. The cover Gesar had put in place not only disguised me, it protected me too.
My shoulder smashed against the wall and I threw my hands out in front of me, but at the last second I pulled back and didn't strike. I blinked and raised the shadow of my eyelids up over my eyes.
Standing by the windows, grim-faced from effort, was a vampire. Tall, with the face of a well-bred European. A Higher Vampire, without the slightest doubt. And not as immature as Kostya. He was at least three hundred years old. And his power undoubtedly exceeded mine.