“By all means. ‘You are Anton Gorodetsky, Higher White Magician. You are Nadka’s father. Because of you . . . all of us . . .”

“What came after that?”

“At that point he was interrupted.”

Gesar muttered something and started drumming his fingers on the table. I waited. Everybody else was waiting too.

“Anton, I wouldn’t like to seem impolite . . . but are you certain it was your own decision to drink beer?”

I was flabbergasted. Not even offended, just flabbergasted. To ask an Other if he has fallen under someone else’s influence is quite a serious matter. It’s like . . . well, it’s like one man inquiring about the success of another man’s intimate life. Between close friends, of course, that kind of question is possible. But between a boss and his subordinate . . . and in the presence of other colleagues . . . naturally, if an inexperienced Other commits some kind of inept blunder, then the question “Were you thinking with your own head?” is quite appropriate, although even so it’s rhetorical. But asking a Higher Other a question like that . . .

“Boris Ignatievich,” I said, furiously tearing away all my layers of mental defense. “I must have given you some reason to say that. I honestly can’t think exactly what. In my view, I acted entirely of my own free will. But if you have any doubts, scan me—I don’t object.”

Of course, that was another rhetorical phrase. Absolutely rhetorical. The kind of thing a man who has fallen under some absurd suspicion would say—for instance, when he’s a guest in someone’s house and is accused of stealing the silver spoons off the table . . .

“Thank you, Anton. I accept your suggestion,” Gesar replied, getting up.

The next moment I blanked out.

And then I opened my eyes.

Between those two points, of course, some time had passed—five or ten minutes. Only I didn’t remember it. I was in Gesar’s office, lying on the small divan referred to ironically by everyone as “the brainstorm launch pad.” Olga was holding my head—and she was very, very angry. Gesar was sitting on a chair opposite me—and he was very, very embarrassed. There was no one else in the office.

“Well, then, am I a trembling wretch or am I justified?” I asked, quoting Dostoyevsky’s famous phrase.

“Anton, I offer you my very humblest apologies,” said Gesar.

“He’s already apologized to all the others,” Olga added. “Anton, forgive the old fool.”

I sat up and rubbed my temples. My head didn’t actually hurt—it just felt incredibly empty and it was ringing.

“Who am I? Where am I? Who are you, I don’t know you!” I muttered.

“Anton, please accept my apologies . . .” Gesar repeated.

“Boss, what made you think I was under some kind of influence?”