Like the expression on the militiaman’s face when the general tells him: “Well done . . . well done . . . I suppose you knew whose nephew it was that you were arresting—but that didn’t frighten you? You’re a real hero . . .” Like the expression on the pilot’s face when his plane is already taxiing over the concrete and the fuel tank explodes in a ferocious ball of flame. Or the expression on the face of the man on the pavement, kneading his cigarette to soften it before lighting up, with his stare fixed on the shattered icicle, when he hears a sudden shout above his head: “Look out!”

He was afraid of me.

He knew who I was. Not exactly, perhaps . . . but there was no point in introducing myself as an inspector, a journalist, or an environmental health officer.

He knew that I wasn’t human.

“Wait here, Las,” I said. “I’d better handle this . . .”

Pastukhov waited without trying to walk away or pretend that he hadn’t noticed me approaching. He didn’t reach for his weapon, as I had been slightly afraid that he might (I didn’t want to start the conversation as dynamically as that). And when I stopped two steps away, he heaved a sigh, smiled awkwardly, and asked: “Permission to smoke?”

“What?” I asked, perplexed. “Oh, of course . . .”

Pastukhov took out a cigarette and lit up greedily. Then he said: “One thing I really want to ask you: don’t make me get drunk anymore. They’ll chuck me out of the service! We’ve got another campaign on now, they sack you if you just show up for work with a hangover.”

I looked at him for a few seconds, then something came together in my head and I saw a gray Moscow winter, dirty snow on the verge of Peace Prospect, trading kiosks clustered round the Exhibition of Economic Achievements metro station, two militiamen walking towards me—one a bit older, the other still very young.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you really get it in the neck that time?”

The policeman shrugged indefinitely. Then he said: “You haven’t changed at all. Thirteen years have gone by—and you haven’t even aged.”

“We age slowly,” I said.

“Uh-huh.” Pastukhov nodded and tossed his cigarette away. “I’m not stupid. I understand everything. So . . . tell me straight away what you want. Or do what you want to do.”

He was afraid of me. Well, who wouldn’t be frightened of someone who can make you do anything at all with a single word?

I lowered my eyes, reaching for my shadow. I stepped into it—and I was in the Twilight. There wasn’t any particular necessity for it, but an aura can be scanned more thoroughly from there.

The policeman was human. Not the slightest indication of an Other. A man, and by no means the worst of them.