"Wait." Edgar shook his head. "Let's not be in such a hurry… you never know, it might not be him. Anton, take this."

I took the small glass flask that was bound with copper or bronze wire. It looked terribly old. There was a dark-brown liquid splashing around inside it.

"What's that?"

"Perfectly ordinary twenty-year-old armagnac. But the flask is trickier. Only an Other can open it." Edgar laughed. "It's just a trinket really. Some ancient magician put the same spell on all his bottles, so the servants couldn't steal anything. If your friend can open it, then he's an Other."

"I can't sense any magic…" I said, turning the flask over in my hands.

"That's the point," Edgar said smugly. "A simple and reliable test."

I nodded.

"And here's a simple snack to go with it." Edgar reached into the inside pocket of his raincoat and took out a triangular bar of Toblerone. "Right, get on with it! Wait! Which compartment is it?"

"The sleeper car, compartment two."

"We'll keep an eye on it," Edgar promised. He got halfway to his feet and switched off the light in the compartment. "Kostya, get under the blanket, we're already asleep."

So a couple of seconds later, when I went out into the corridor with the flask and the chocolate, my companions really were lying peacefully under their blankets.

But in any case, Las was considerate enough not to try to peep in through the open door-he must really have gotten the wrong idea about the sex of my friends.

"Cognac?" Las asked, with a glance at the flask I was holding.

"Better. Twenty-year-old armagnac."

"Good stuff," Las agreed. "There are lots of folks who don't even know that word."

"Maybe," I agreed, following Las into the next car.

"Uh huh. Serious types, wheeler-dealers-they handle millions-but apart from White Horse whisky and Napoleon brandy they haven't got a clue about civilized drinking. I've always found the narrow cultural outlook of the political and economic elite astonishing. Tell me, why did the Mercedes 600 become our symbol of affluence? You're talking to this serious, intelligent guy and he suddenly comes out with, 'They dented my Merc-I had to drive a 500 for a week!' And he has this expression in his eyes, the submission of the ascetic who's been reduced to a 500, and the pride of the big shot who owns a 600! I used to think that the country would never come to anything until the New Russians switched to the Bentleys and Jaguars that they ought to drive. But then they did change, and it made no difference! You can still see the red club jackets under the Versace shirts… And that's another thing… Hah, a fine designer they chose to turn into a cult…"

I followed Las into the cozy compartment. There were only two bunk beds here, plus a little corner table with its top covering a triangular washbasin, and a little fold-down seat.

"There's actually less space than in a normal compartment," I observed.

"Uh huh, but then the air conditioner works. And there's a washbasin… a thing that comes in handy in many circumstances…"

Las pulled an aluminum suitcase out from under one bunk and started rummaging in it. A moment later a one-liter plastic bottle appeared on the table. I picked it up and looked at the label. It really was kumis.

"Did you think I was joking?" my "neighbor" chuckled. "It's a really neat drink. Is that the kind you were thinking of selling?"

"Yes, that's the stuff," I blurted out without thinking.

"Then you won't be able to, that's from Kirghizia. The place you ought to have gone to is Ufa. It's nearer, and there's less trouble with the customs. They make kumis there, and Buza. Have you ever tried Buza? It's a mixture of kumis and oat jelly. It's disgusting garbage but it reanimates you instantly if you've got a hangover."

Meanwhile, other items had appeared on the table: salami, braised meat, sliced bread, and a liter bottle of Polignac French cognac-a brand I didn't know.

I gulped and added my modest offering to the provisions, then I said, "Let's try the armagnac first."

"Okay," Las agreed, taking out two plastic cups for water and two cupronickel shot-glasses for the armagnac.

"Open it."

"It's your armagnac, you open it," Las countered casually.

There was definitely something fishy here, all right!

"No, you do it," I blurted out. "I can never pour the drinks evenly."

Las looked at me as if I were a total idiot. He said, "I can see you must be a serious drinker. Do you often split a bottle three ways out on the street?"

But he picked up the flask and started twisting the top.

I waited.

Las huffed and puffed, then frowned. He stopped trying to unscrew the top and took a close look at it.

"Looks like it's stuck…" he muttered.

He had to be a disguised Other…

He lifted up the edge of his T-shirt, took a tight grip on the top and turned it sharply with all his strength. He exclaimed excitedly: "It's moving, it's moving!

There was a crunching sound.

"That's got it…" Las said tentatively. "Oh…"

He held his hands out to me, embarrassed. One was holding the glass flask, the other was holding its broken-off neck, with the lid still firmly screwed onto it.

"Sorry… oh shit…"

But a moment later a glint of pride appeared in Las's eyes. "That's some strength I've got! I'd never have thought…"

I didn't say a word, just pictured Edgar's face when he realized he'd lost his useful artifact.

"Valuable, was it?" Las asked guiltily. "An antique flask, right?"

"It's nothing," I muttered. "It's the armagnac I'm upset about. Some glass got into it."

"That's no problem," Las said cheerfully. He dove back into the suitcase, leaving the mutilated flask on the table. He took out a handkerchief and demonstratively stripped the label off it: "Clean. Never even washed. And not Chinese, but Czech, so you don't need to worry about pneumonia."

He folded the handkerchief in two, wound it around the broken neck of the flask and calmly poured the armagnac through it into the two glasses. He raised his own.

"To our journey!"

"To our journey," I repeated.

The armagnac was soft, fragrant, and sweetish, like warm grape juice. It went down easily, without even inspiring the idea of some kind of snack to go with it, and then somewhere deep inside it exploded-humanely and precisely enough to make any American missile jealous.

"Wonderful stuff," Las commented, breathing out. "But it's got a high sugar content, I tell you! That's why I like the Armenian cognacs-the sugar's taken right down to the minimum, but the full flavor's all still there… Let's have another."

The glasses were filled a second time. Las looked at me expectantly.

"Here's to health?" I suggested uncertainly.

"To health," Las agreed. He drank and then sniffed at the handkerchief. He looked out the window, shuddered, and muttered: "That's some stuff… it doesn't mess around."

"What's wrong?"

"You'll never believe it, but I thought I just saw a bat fly past the train!" Las exclaimed. "Huge, the size of a sheepdog. Br-rr-rr…"

I realized I'd have to give Kostya a couple of words of friendly advice. But out loud I just joked, "It probably wasn't a bat, more likely a squirrel."

"A flying squirrel," Las said mournfully. "God help us all… No, honestly, a huge bat!"

"Maybe it was just flying very close to the glass?" I suggested. "And you only caught a glimpse of it, so you couldn't judge how far away it was-so you thought it was bigger than it really was."

"Maybe so…" Las said thoughtfully. "But what was it doing here? Why would it want to fly alongside the train?"

"That's elementary," I said, taking the broken flask and pouring us a third glass each. "A locomotive moves at such great speed that it creates a shield of air in front of it. The shield stuns mosquitoes and butterflies and all sorts of other flying creatures and tosses them into turbulent streams of air running along both sides of the train. And so at night bats like to fly along a moving train and eat the stunned flies."