“The very first prophecy that a Prophet makes when his powers become effective is called his main prophecy. It can be extremely important or absolutely insignificant. But according to one theory—one theory—we’re getting into very uncertain territory here, Anton.”

“Don’t drag it out.”

“This theory says that the first prophecy doesn’t just predict reality, but changes it. But there’s another theory that says . . . of course a Prophet can’t change reality. But he selects one of the possible courses that reality can follow . . . develops it and fixes it. To use old photographers’ terminology.”

“There aren’t any photographers left who develop images and fix them,” I muttered. “So the Tiger tries to stop the first prophecy because if it’s terrible, it will come true?”

“That’s right. If the kid predicts World War Three, then it’ll happen. If he predicts a hit by an asteroid a couple of kilometers long, then one will fall on us . . .”

“But what he told me in the airport—”

“That’s not a prophecy. Just a harbinger. He has to make his prophecy now, after initiation. Usually during the first few days. Sometimes in the first few hours.”

I looked at the fat little lad squirming in the large, threadbare chair and asked: “What do you want to do, boss?”

“Shake the boy up a bit so that he utters his main prophecy. It’s by no means certain that it will be something terrible. Anton. I really don’t feel like capitulating to some weird Twilight Creature that won’t even talk to us!”

“And don’t you feel sorry for the boy?”

“You can’t feel sorry for everyone. If dozens of Others have to spill their blood to prevent a child shedding a single teardrop, then let him bawl. But I don’t want to just hand him over for slaughter without at least trying to do something.”

“So, if the Tiger comes . . .”

“Then the Night Watch will not do battle with him.”

“That’s contemptible.”

“It’s honest. If the Inquisition came to back us up, we’d have some kind of chance. Maybe. But they’ve refused. Now everything depends on how much time we have until the Tiger shows up. If it’s not before morning, I’ll probably have got the boy to speak out by then. Let him utter his prophecy . . . I won’t even listen to him. He can mutter it into the toilet bowl. Or into a hollow in a tree, like Erasmus . . . I can grow a tree with a hollow, especially for the occasion. But if the Tiger comes at night . . .”

“But Boris Ignatievich, where in Blake’s poem does it say anything about him coming in the morning?”

Gesar paused for a few seconds, and then quoted it again.

“When the stars threw down their spears,

And water’d heaven with their tears . . .”

“That’s a fat lot of help.”