“A couple of bottles of whisky.”

“What kind?” Gesar looked up from the desk.

“Scotch. Single malt. Glenlivet twelve-year-old and Glenmorangie eighteen-year-old . . . but that was for a present, I personally think drinking eighteen-year-old whisky is rather flashy . . .”

“What the hell!” barked Gesar. “Of all the petty, selfish indulgences . . .”

“Pardon me, Boris Ignatievich,” I said, “but Mr. Warnes drinks like a fish. And he prefers decent single malts, not White Horse. My bar’s completely empty. Tomorrow some other guest will arrive and you’ll assign me to look after him. But I can’t buy alcohol in the fancy ‘A-Z of Taste’ supermarkets on my salary.”

“Go on,” Gesar said in an icy voice.

“After that I sat down in the bar to drink a mug of beer.”

“How long have you been drinking beer in the mornings, Gorodetsky?”

“Four days now. Since Warnes arrived.”

Semyon giggled. Gesar half-rose to his feet and glanced round everyone sitting at the table—ten Others, all at least Third-Level or, as the veterans said, “third-rank.”

“We’ll discuss the specifics of entertaining visitors later. So, you were drinking beer for your hangover. Then what happened?”

“A woman came in with a child. A fat little boy about ten years old, bawling and howling. He was begging his mother not to get on the plane, said it was going to crash. Well . . . naturally, I scanned his aura. The kid turned out to be an uninitiated Other, High-Level, at least First or Second. From all the indications—a clairvoyant. Possibly even a Prophet.”

A light stir ran round the room.

“Why such bold conclusions?” asked Gesar.

“The color. The intensity. The glimmering . . .” I strained slightly and broadcast what I had seen into space. Naturally, I didn’t create any real image, but the mind will always oblige and find some point in mid-air for a picture.

“Possibly,” Gesar said, with a nod. “But even so, a Prophet . . .”

“As a rule, a clairvoyant doesn’t have the ability to foretell his own future. But the boy was frightened of his own death. That’s an argument in favor of a Prophet . . .” Olga said in a quiet voice.

Gesar nodded reluctantly.

“I inquired if we had the right to a first- or second-level intervention—to save the entire plane. Unfortunately, we didn’t have that right. Then I personally took the right to a fifth-level and removed the boy and his mother from the flight.”

“Reasonable,” said Gesar, apparently a bit calmer now. “Reasonable. Is the boy being monitored?”

I shrugged.

Semyon cleared his throat delicately. “We’re working on it, Boris Ignatievich.”

Gesar nodded and looked at me again: “Is there anything else?”

I hesitated. “He made another prediction. To me personally.”

“To a Higher Other?” Gesar asked, to make quite sure.

“A Prophet!” said Olga, sounding almost jolly. “Definitely a Prophet!”

“Can you repeat it for us, Anton?” Gesar asked in a voice that was perfectly calm and friendly now.