“My neighbor. She’s almost eighty already. Lives alone. Her children are either dead, or they don’t visit her. Yesterday I was walking along and I saw her in front of a shop—standing there, crying . . . counting the kopecks in her hand. How can that happen, Anton? How can we let people suffer like that?”

I sighed.

“So it’s not the Dark Ones you’re protesting about, then? Not about the vampires who hunt people? Not about the Dark Magicians and Sorceresses?”

“Them too,” Valentin replied quickly. “But they come second. I just can’t bear to see the way people suffer!”

“By the way, did you help the old woman?” I asked casually.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you ask her why she was crying? Was it because she didn’t have enough money for bread and kefir? Or had she lost her purse? Or was she simply senile, squirreling away all her money for her funeral? That happens to old women sometimes, you know.”

“I can’t help all the old women in Russia,” Valentin said resentfully.

“Why only in Russia?” I asked in surprise. “Do you know how badly the old women and children in Africa suffer? You’re not a racist, are you?”

“No!” Valentin exclaimed indignantly. “But there are other people there, and Others too. I think that’s their duty.”

“I can agree with that,” I said. “But even so! You’re an Other. Sure, you’re a Light One, but the abilities of an Other allow you to live a pretty decent life, within the limits of the law and morality. You’ve probably got a thousand or two in your pocket. Did you help the old woman?”

“Drop the cheap rhetoric, Gorodetsky!” Valentin suddenly shouted out loud. “I ran away! I was ashamed! You can’t plug a hole in a dam with your finger!”

“Yes, you can,” I replied confidently. “If it’s a small hole, and a strong finger. You’re an Other. But, first and foremost, you’re a man. You didn’t help the one and only old woman you came across—so what do you want to use the Power for?”

“I’m going to the Kremlin,” Valentin said in an icy voice.

“And what?” I asked. “I hope you won’t start killing everyone on your way, like a certain Don Rumata?”

Valentin gave me a puzzled look.

“That’s from a different book, not the one about Schuchart,” I explained. “Don’t bother your head about it. So what is it that you want?”

“I’ll remoralize them,” said Valentin. “All of them. From the president to the . . . to the Kremlin office manager.”