Part 26 (1/2)

'They are even throwing questions at Polis already.' The stalker pulled a folded sheet of newspaper from his pocket.

Artyom had seen such papers at Polis. At one of the pa.s.sages stood a tray where it was possible to buy them, but they cost ten cartridges and paying so much for a sheet of wrapping paper with poorly printed gossip on it was not worth it. Melnik, it seemed, didn't regret the cartridges.

Several short articles huddled under the proud name 'Metro News' on the roughly cut yellowish sheet. One of the pieces was even accompanied by a black and white photograph. The banner ran: 'Mysterious Disappearances at Kievskaya Continue.'

'The smokers are still alive, they say.' Anton carefully took the newspaper in his hands and smoothed it out. 'OK, let's go, I'll show you your side branches. Will you stop reading?'

The stalker nodded. Anton stood, looked at his son and said to him: 'I'll be right back. Look, don't be naughty here without me,' and, turning toward Artyom, asked, 'Look after him, be a pal.'

There was nothing left for Artyom to do but nod.

As soon as his father and the stalker had gone a bit further away, Oleg jumped up, took the box away from Artyom with a naughty look, yelled at him, 'Catch me!' and broke into a run towards the dead end. Recalling that the boy was now his responsibility, Artyom guiltily looked at the rest of the lookouts, lit his flashlight and went after Oleg.

He didn't investigate the half-destroyed office facility, as Artyom feared he might. He was waiting right next to the blockage.

'See what happens now!' the lad said.

Oleg scrambled onto the stones, reached the level of the pipes and disappeared into the blockage. Then he took out his box, placed it against the pipe and turned the handle. 'Listen!' he said.

The pipe began to hum, resonating, and it was as if it all had been filled from within by the simple, doleful melody the music box was playing. The boy pressed his ear to the pipe and, as if bewitched, continued to turn the handle, drawing the sounds from the metallic box.

He stopped for a second, listening, smiled happily and then jumped down from the pile of stones and extended the music box to Artyom: 'Here, try it yourself!'

Artyom was able to imagine how the sound of the melody would change as it pa.s.sed through the hollow metal pipe. But the child's eyes were so bright, that he decided not to behave like the ultimate pain in the neck. Leaning the box against the pipe, he pressed his ear to the cold metal and began to turn the handle. The music began to resound so loudly that he nearly jerked his head away. The laws of acoustics were not familiar to Artyom, and he was unable to understand by what miracle this piece of metal could so amplify the melody inside such a feebly tinkling box.

Turning the handle for several more seconds and playing the short tune a good three times, he nodded to Oleg: 'It's splendid.'

'Listen again!' he began to laugh. 'Don't play, just listen!' Artyom shrugged and looked at the post to see if Melnik and Anton had returned, and once more placed his ear to the pipe. What could one possibly hear now? The wind? The echo of a scary noise that flooded the tunnels between Alekseeva and Prospect Mir? Mir?

From an unimaginable distance, making their way through the earth's stratum with difficulty, came m.u.f.fled sounds. They came from the direction of the dead Park Pobedy. There could be no doubt about it. Artyom stood stock still, listening, and, gradually becoming chilled, understood: he was listening to something impossible - music.

Someone or something several kilometres away from him was duplicating that melancholy melody from the music box one note after another. But this was not an echo: the unknown performer had erred in several places, shortened a note somewhere, but the motif remained completely recognizable. And, mainly, it was not at all a ringing chime, the sound resembled more of a hum . . . Or singing? The indistinct chorus of a mult.i.tude of voices? No, a hum all the same . . .

'What, is it playing?' Oleg asked of him with a smile.

'Hus.h.!.+ I'm still listening! What is it?' Barely parting his lips, Artyom mumbled hoa.r.s.ely.

'Music! The pipe is playing!' the boy explained simply.

The melancholy, oppressive impression that this eerie singing produced in Artyom, it seemed, was not pa.s.sed on to the lad. For him, it was simply a happy game, and he could never ask how he could hear a melody from a station cut off from the whole world, where all the living had vanished into thin air more than a decade ago.

Oleg again climbed up onto the stones, on the verge of preparing to start his little machine again, but Artyom suddenly felt inexplicably fearful for him and for himself. He grabbed the lad by the hand and, not paying any attention to his protests, dragged him back to the stove.

'Coward! Coward!' Oleg screamed. 'Only children believe in these tales!'

'What tales?' Artyom stopped and looked him in the eyes.

'That they take the children who go into the tunnels to listen to the pipes!'

'Who takes them?' Artyom dragged him closer to the stove.

'The dead!'

The conversation stopped: a lookout speaking about d.a.m.nation roused himself and gave them such a once over that the words stuck in their throats.

Their adventure had ended right on time: Anton and the stalker were returning to the post, and someone else was walking with them. Artyom quickly planted the boy in his seat. The child's father had asked him to look after Oleg, and not to indulge in his whims . . . And who knew what superst.i.tions Anton himself believed?

'Excuse me, we've been delayed.' Anton sank onto the sacks beside Artyom. 'He wasn't naughty, was he?'

Artyom shook his head, hoping that the lad had enough sense not to brag about their adventure. But he, it seemed, understood everything himself just fine. Oleg again laid out his cartridge cases with an enthralled look.

The third man who had arrived with Anton and the stalker, a balding, skinny man with sunken cheeks and bags under his eyes, was unfamiliar to Artyom.

He approached the stove only for a minute and nodded at the lookouts, and Artyom examined him closely, but he didn't say anything to him. Melnik introduced him.

'This is Tretyak,' he told Artyom. 'He'll be going on ahead with us. He's a specialist. A missile man.'

CHAPTER 16.

The Songs of the Dead

'There are no secret entrances there, and there never were. Really, don't you know that yourself?' Tretyak had raised his voice with displeasure, and his words flew at Artyom.

They were returning from duty - back to Kievskaya. The stalker and Tretyak walked a little behind the others and animatedly discussed something. When Artyom also fell back to take part in their conversation, they began to whisper, and he was left to join the main group again. The young Oleg, who was skipping along, trying not to drop behind the adults, and refusing to climb onto his father's shoulders, immediately and happily grabbed him by the hand.

'I'm a missile man, too!' he announced.

Artyom looked at the boy with surprise. He had been alongside when Melnik introduced Tretyak to him and most likely had heard this word by chance. Did he understand what it meant?

'Only don't tell anybody!' added Oleg hurriedly. 'The others aren't allowed to know it. It's a secret.'

'OK, I won't tell anyone.' Artyom played up to him.

'It's no shame, quite the opposite. You should be proud of it, but others might say bad things about you out of envy,' the boy explained, although Artyom hadn't even intended to ask anything.

Anton was walking about ten paces ahead, lighting the path. Nodding at his frail figure, the child loudly whispered: 'Papa said not to show anyone, but you know how to keep secrets. Here!' He took a small fragment of cloth from an inside pocket.

Artyom s.h.i.+ned his flashlight on it. It was a torn tab - a circle of a thick, rubberized substance, about seven centimetres in diameter.

On one side it was completely black, on the other was portrayed the intersection of three incomprehensible oblong objects on a dark background, not unlike one of the six-pointed paper snowflakes with which they decorated VDNKh VDNKh for the New Year. for the New Year.

One of the objects was standing upright and Artyom recognized it as a cartridge from a machine gun or a sniper's rifle, but with wings attached to the bottom. But he did not recognize the other two identical, yellow ones, with rings on both sides. The mysterious snowflake was enclosed in a stylized wreath, such as on old c.o.c.kades, and there were letters around the circle of the tab. But the colour on them was faded so that Artyom was able to read only, '. . . troops and ar . . .', and also the word '. . ussia', which was written below, beneath the figure. If he had had a little more time, he might have been able to understand what the boy showed him, but he didn't.

'Hey, Olezhek! Come here, there's something for you!' Anton called to his son.

'What is it?' Artyom asked the boy, before he grabbed the tab from him and concealed it in his pocket.