I even know in my dream why do I ascend into the sky. Somewhere up there is a crystal dome of the Deep which had divided the world in two. I must break it, either using the Maniac's weapon or with my bare hands, no matter. The crystal would crack and stream down on the city, in a blinding bright star rain, because the stars are undoubtedly made of crystal, of a pungent crystal that reflects the light of our eyes.

And then something would happen; maybe the stars will burn us or maybe they'll have time to cool down and will fall right into the hands set below. I don't know for sure what do I want.

It's just most important not to make a mistake and to strike right in time. This time had already been defined, the time when I'll be able to turn the barrier into millions of crystal stars, it have almost come, the time…

– It's time… Time, Leonid.

I open my eyes accompanied by Windows-Home's whisper, a couple more seconds passes until I finally realize where am I. A moment later Vika enters.

– You're awaken already?

I nod, sit down on a messy bed and rub my forehead. The head is heavy, I had to either sleep more or not to sleep at all.

– I'll make coffee, – says Vika.

Leaned against the wooden wall I watch her. She takes a small sack with coffee out of the dark sideboard, dark not because of dirt but because of its age, then grinds the beans with a small manual polished brass coffee grinder, lights the fire with experience. I can smell the dry pine wood, boiling coffee and some abstract, not medical cleanliness… either the one of a water in a mountain stream or the one of the hot sand under the sun.

So good.

I can whisper my rhyme and exit into reality, to make a real coffee and even to spice it with remaining cognac, to wash my face with a cold water.

I'll be damned if I do that.

Everything is real here: the clean air, the live water, coffee grounds on the bottom of a cup, Vika's caring look. Outside there's only an abandoned dusty room, dampness and rotten water from the faucet.

… Too often do I feel that suicidal wish to become just as everybody lately …

– Some cognac? – asks Vika and pours me a little cup of Achtamar.

– I have five more minutes, – I say, – Then… it'll be time.

– You'll return not alone?

– I hope so.

– Take your friend by the hand when you enter, in this case he'll be given privileged status too. I'll ask Wiz.

– Thanks.

– You'll thank Madam for that. Everything depends on her.

– We're good friends with Madam, she'll allow that. – I smile.

I have time to drink two cups of coffee and two cups of cognac before my time really runs out.

I have to go.

Vika starts to clean the room when I exit, and involuntarily I remember fake families that started to appear more and more often as of late, all these couples that live in different cities renting common apartments in Deeptown. They say that they love to do house work, to vacuum clean and to do laundry – as if imitation of common life would make their union a real one.

"Do you have a family?"

"Yes. My wife is a prostitute, we have a small mountain hut in the brothel. You're welcome to visit us, she'll make a great coffee. It's always clean in our place, even after the earthquake."

I start feeling dread, just because such picture doesn't irritate me at all.

The situation requires an urgent solution, any solution.

I lag along the street to the entrance portal, pass by a small pavilion of some airline company with a bored operator inside. The beggar is perched by the pavilion, this is also some new phenomenon – paupers in virtual space, they weren't here just a month ago.

The beggar is clean but ragged and scraggy, his figure is a bit transparent and moves jerkily – it's how they try to demonstrate the low modem speed and the weakness of the software.

– Help me… – moans the beggar. { In English in the original }

– The God will give, – I inform him.

– Mr Hacker, at least one dollar… – cries the beggar behind my back.

They say that the majority of those beggars are Russians. They say that none of them needs money, this is just a new fun for the "New Russians", a rare amusement, to beg, to be in the pauper's skin for some time. It's like a fashionable and effective psychic therapy. Maniac once swore that he managed to glue a marker on one of such beggars who turned out to be a director of a big bank.

– I worked for Microsoft, – mumbles the beggar lagging behind, – Once I called Windoze a buggy proggy and praised OS/2. Bill Gates had personally fired me the next day and included me in the black list. I was a cool hacker… Look how low did I sink…

– What interruption is your modem hung to? – I shout turning back to him, – What does the display of the message "Press this button to begin" in Windows-Home depends on? Three best ways to freeze Windoze? Who invented texture graphics? The best protocol for the modems manufactured by….

The beggar flees.

Looks like Maniac was telling the truth.

But at least these amusements are less dangerous than the car races that were stylish among Neuve riches a year ago. That was the reason for the private cars to be forbidden in Deeptown, after which Deep-Transit had triumphantly occupied the transportation service niche.

The encounter with the beggar amuses me and by the time I approach the "Labyrinth"'s portal I have a completely different mood: a battle-like one.

The crowd is dense as usual, "Labyrinth" is still functioning which means that everything was calculated correctly, but the fear to run into the shut door at the last second doesn't let go of me. I elbow through the players in hurry and only when I type in my code and enter the 33rd level I finally calm down.

Let's begin!

I'm Gunslinger!

It's windy on the level. The metal cabin of "American Hills" squeaks, rocking, half slid from its rails and hanging above the very head of Unfortunate.

Great, one more mean of death is found.

– Hey! – I shout, approaching him, – It's me!

Unfortunate raises his head, maybe it's a good sign.

– Bored?

I sit down by his side and Unfortunate takes off his respirator himself, looks at me tiredly and hopelessly.

– Are you a human or a program? – I ask directly. Unfortunate shakes his head: go ahead and understand the negation the way you want…

– Do you know that you've got the nick 'Unfortunate'? – I say, – But you know man, even biblical Iov was more lucky than you! Your bad luck is something really unique!

Finally he replies:

– This is not only my… bad luck.

– Do you want to say you were rescued bad?

I'm talkative and bucked up like after a good drink, I need to stir up Unfortunate a little and, as stupid as it might sound, I need to become sure that he's not a program.

– I was rescued well. It's that just nobody could cross the border.

– What border?

– Of consciousness.

Unfortunate is patient in his explanations, but so what? They don't clarify anything.

– Let's go away from under this shit, – I nod at the rocking cab, – We have very little time.

– You won't be able to anyway… – whispers Unfortunate but stands up submissively and moves aside.

– We'll see, we'll see…

I'm waiting for I don't know what… for the action promised by Urman, for the level's shutdown?

– Unfortunate… may I call you that? Do you like poetry?

Silence.

The program might imitate the talk, making answers from my own words, but no program can create anything by itself.

– "My uncle's a man of honest rules", – I recite, – Go on! Huh? Unfortunate?

He looks back at me with such an irony that I feel uncomfortable:

– "… When seriously fallen ill…" Say Gunslinger, do all Russian divers know only Pushkin by heart?