The Fallen

By Julia Neyo

My name is Sath… My name is Sathariel, actually. I am one of those who people call ha-Satan. Yes, it means “adversary” in Aramaic and yes, it is “adversary of God”. But for some reason, everyone has forgotten that those who you nicknamed like this, were first and foremost the defenders of people, who stand by you before a Heavenly court. It was providence we didn’t choose. It was decided instead for us.
You, people, have given us many names, but none of them was correct, and you people, have given us functions completely unfamiliar to us. We were deities to you at first, then we became the outcasts. And we were Iyrin, the Watchers, who guard and protect you. And who decides if we’ve done our jobs well?
It would be foolish to make excuses now. Who am I to do this?
My name is Sathariel and it means “the one who is on the other side of God”. But I’m just an archivist who writes time. Every moment of time, from the beginning of time.
Who am I? I’m just one of the Brethren, one among two hundred of “the fallen”. But now... now I want to tell you our real story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398449428

Julia Neyo

Julia Neyo has a cinematologist degree, and has worked as journalist in the media as the editor-in-chief of two magazines. After moving to Paris, she became the publisher and editor-in-chief of a magazine “5ème République” dedicated to the history and culture of France.

Book preview

The Fallen

Julia Neyo

Austin Macauley Publishers

The Fallen

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

About the Author

Julia Neyo has a cinematologist degree, and has worked as journalist in the media and as the editor-in-chief of two magazines. After moving to Paris, she became the publisher and editor-in-chief of a magazine 5ème République dedicated to the history and culture of France.

Dedication

In loving memory of Dr Charles Clarke, my precious friend and patient mentor.

Copyright Information ©

Julia Neyo 2022

The right of Julia Neyo to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398449411 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398449428 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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E14 5AA

There is a crack in everything,

That’s how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen, Anthem

Sath was used to losses. They had become a part of his very existence. Fewer and fewer were coming to the funerals. Not because everyone, one way or another, was leaving for the next world—that’s what they dreamt of—but because they were decrepit, ravaged by time, which was eating them from the inside like a termite. Of the hundreds of them, only a few dozen remained, ancient, sickly old men, scattered all over the world.

Sath had got old a long time ago and couldn’t remember exactly when his body began to let him down. First, there was a grey hair that he hardly noticed, then the back pain, and getting out of bed became pure torment, then weakness in his knees and dizziness. And this process had become irreversible. While brewing his coffee in a small kitchen in the morning, he saw his hands tremble and his fingers twisted together like bird claws. Of course, he knew he wasn’t eternal. There was nothing eternal here at all. Death was inevitable. Many of them have already turned to dust—erased forever from memory.

Sometimes Sath would wake up in the dark and gaze at the ceiling without understanding whether he was alive or dead. The wall clock was ticking evenly. Somewhere in the distance, police sirens were tearing the morning air apart, but more and more often, he found himself thinking that this couldn’t be reality, and he was lying in the crypt that this world had become for him, unable to move a finger. Sometimes he would stay in that strange lethargy until the very evening, shifting thoughts in his head from one place to another. Sometimes the cat—for whom he hadn’t been able to find a name for fifteen years, and so the poor thing responded to any—would jump on top of him, confirming with all his purring weight that Sath was still alive, and he would get up. He would get up to start another day that would be shorter than the previous one.

But today Sath was woken up at dawn. He picked up neatly folded clothes from a chair, put them on, buttoned them with disobedient fingers and made some coffee. The routine that should’ve been calming was annoying. He turned on an old pot-bellied TV and poured coffee into a small cup, half-listening to the news: Found guilty… involvement in the bombing… organisation of terrorist formations.

Nothing changes in this world, Sath thought, glancing at the little picture-tube, and flinched. A thick drop of coffee fell down to the floor. He seemed to recognise the person on the screen. Sath shook his head. It could have been just his imagination. He had to ask someone else; his eyesight, like everything else in this world, had begun to fail him too.

He rubbed a brown drop across the floor with the tip of his shoe, stroked the cat, fixed his white clerical collar straight, sighed and left the apartment. Getting the key into the lock was also a problem now, but he kept trying.

The concierge downstairs—probably the last real concierge in Paris, flabby, in a greasy robe, with forever swollen feet in old-fashioned shoes well worn for twenty years, who was still watching stupid TV shows and keeping postcards of tenants, given in the last century—rushed towards him, throwing a watering can from which she sprayed two stunted fig trees in the hall.

Bless me, Father!

Why the hell does she want this? Sath wondered for the umpteenth time. She doesn’t sin anymore, and there’s doubt she ever did. Why does she need a blessing? It’s not like she is going into a battle. Maybe she found a new witch in the house?

Little Lauren from the fifth floor had grown up, but hadn’t become any prettier. Yet, her skirts were so breathtakingly short that they didn’t even wear those in the sixties. And she was also dating Samir, an Arab from HLM¹ on a nearby street. Her parents didn’t know, of course. And if they did, what could they’ve done? Freedom, Equality, Brotherhood and Tolerance have long been here. But Madame Blin—yes, the French, not the Portuguese, which of course is extremely rare nowadays—she knew.

She knew everything and everyone. She kept a file on all the inhabitants of the house, carefully noting the slightest dirt on each tenant with a pen with a bitten cap in a thick notebook. Sath had seen it a couple of times; the first time when he just moved into his apartment. In those years, Madame Blin was still relatively young, but already deeply unhappy. To tell the truth, she never was Madame. She always remained Mademoiselle, and one day, when Sath brought her a bottle of some strong and inexpensive stuff just before Christmas, she was so moved that she started showing him photos of a greasy haired goner who ran away with her best friend and broke the heart of the village girl Monique Blin.

Monique. That’s right; her name was Monique. What a terrible name! It was often given to girls before the war, as if they had a hunch that they would be alone forever. In honour of Saint Monica, whose only achievement in life was the birth of Saint Augustine.

Bless me, Father! Madame Blin repeated demandingly with a half-bow and a loud crack in her knees.

He wondered if she noticed that Sath had barely changed over all the years? He hadn’t. He became grey-haired a long time ago, but for the last twenty years he had taken the habit of walking with a cane—mostly unnecessary help in the fight against the Parisian pavements. Otherwise, his wrinkles were not getting bigger, he was not twisted with arthritis, and he remained exactly the same. Or so he thought.

Perhaps it was the priest’s costume that made him invisible and inconspicuous, someone who should be accepted unconditionally—an old emasculated representative of God, whose appearance was of no consequence to anyone.

He made the usual gesture of putting his index and middle fingers together and easely touched her forehead.

Bless you, my daughter…

Well, are you happy, you stupid old cow? We have done so much for you, and you have perverted and debased everything for which we risked Eternity.

Madame Blin, a Parisian concierge of Breton origin, 70 years old and almost certainly a spinster, grabbed his hand and drooled to kiss the ring, leaving on Sath’s fingers a few sticky crumbs of ham and bread, badly chewed during her recent breakfast. Sath patted the concierge’s shoulder in disgust.

Well, enough, enough… Have a good day, madam. He rushed to the door and onto the street on the well-trodden route.

Tourists were wandering in the cemetery as usual. Their breath blew from their lips in whitish shreds of steam and dissolved in the frosty December air. Something had also been wrong with the weather for a long time; winters were either piercingly cold, or too warm and sunny. And only here, in the city of the dead, everything always remained as usual.

Sath caught up with a man in a light camel coat.

Hello, Dani.

Hello, Sath. I am sorry.

I just…

Azik was a friend to all of us. One of God’s creations, Daniel sighed heavily and took a puff of a cigar. He takes us all in turns. This is His forgiveness.

Fool, do you still believe that? Sath shook his head. How are you?

As usual, I’m okay. Contemporary art is on the rise today, and a good investment, you know…

They stopped a bit away from the others—near the boxwood bushes cut almost to the roots. The gravel road was strewn with flattened butts crushed by heels. Here, the remnants of the Brethren waited for the remains of their friend to be buried beneath the gravestone, and the soul, if it existed, would go to the most beautiful place in the world.

Sath did not believe it. But others did. He really had a better memory than others. Maybe because he was used to recording everything carefully, and there were so many heavy volumes of his notes that they threatened to fall down one day and bury him—and time itself.

Sath visited Azael at the Saint-Joseph Nursing Home in Clamart. By some strange irony, despite being in his already elusive state of mind, Azik chose this residence by himself, which was named after the one he once called a cuckold. In another bit of irony, to get to Azael, Sath had to take a train near Saint-Michel. If Azael found out about this, he would probably have laughed.

Forty minutes on the train, another half hour on foot, tapping the pavement with a cane, saying hello to the doctors, going up to the second floor without an elevator, and he found himself in a bright room with never-held-back curtains, in the middle of which in the chair was always the one to whom Sath owed a favour. Although sometimes he was angry about it. After all, without Azael, everything would have been easier and ended up much sooner.

Sath would sit on a narrow rigid bed next to a pointless old man who was staring out the window but seeing nothing and didn’t know what to do. Sometimes Sath would break boring news to him, sometimes he would spoon-feed him with the grated and completely tasteless food brought by a black nurse who spoke with such a terrible accent that Sath didn’t even understand half of it.

Sometimes Azael forgot how to swallow, and Sath would wipe the puree off his chin with a napkin. This was something he had never liked. But it wasn’t because he was squeamish, not at all—it was not the only thing he had to pick up and wipe in his life—but because in those moments he had to look at Azael’s face. And there hadn’t been a spark of life in that face for years. Empty, sunken, dull, like a baby’s, the eyes looked somewhere above and to the left; the lower lip, on the contrary, protruded and moved slightly to the right. Sath couldn’t understand if this was the result of an unexpected illness, or was it a scar that traced the right side of his face from the eyebrow, almost touching the eye, to the chin, but now indistinguishable from the wrinkles that had turned this once beautiful creature into a crumpled piece of parchment.

Sometimes he would tell Azael that one of their mutual friends was dead, then Azael’s eyes took on meaning and hope for a few seconds. He would try to smile and say something, but would quickly fade away, a string of saliva dripping from his parted mouth and falling on his chest. Sath would patiently wipe it off with a napkin and utter the traditional, You know, there is still not much hope.

And as best he could, he tried to shorten his visits or even not come at all, but for some reason the nurses always grabbed him by the arms and chirped in immediate chorus, how his old friend’s condition had improved after a visit by such a perfect ordained person—in their view, the patient’s closeness to God was reassuring him. Sath only smirked at this.

And now Azael had gone away, finally relieving Sath, and many others, of the necessary weekly visits to the southern suburbs. This was an optional duty they observed. Therefore, Sath knew that if something like this ever happened to him, all the remnants of the Brethren would be drawn in a mournful line to call on him too. Maybe they will come to tell him the news and try to cheer him, or perhaps wipe the food fallen out of his mouth with a napkin, without a word.

Sath shuddered and looked at Daniel. Azael was the strongest of us. Without him, none of this would have happened. Do you remember?

To tell the truth, not so much anymore. Daniel threw a cigar that wasn’t even half smoked and pressed it into the fine gravel with the tip of his expensive boot. Well, I’ll go, I have to make sure everything is as it should be. Or as it’s supposed to be… he paused. But who supposed it? See you later. Are you sure there is no hope at all?

Sath just shook his head and leisurely walked up to a group of ancient old people standing near the still opened grave. The coffin was covered with a lid. Sath ran his fingers over its polished surface and once again rejoiced that there was no funeral service. No one would have agreed. Over the years, everyone had already figured out that communication with the other side is one-way only, and therefore they never included this stupid ritual in the farewell process. This was probably good. It was apparently good not to see someone you knew alive, laying out in a wooden box.

Sath tried not to meet anyone’s eyes—complaints would begin, so peculiar to the old man’s nature, and the same questions would be asked that they’d already asked thousands of times before. He turned around and, without exchanging a word with anyone else, walked out of the cemetery.

And what could he say to them? No, nothing has changed. Just get over it. Die, turn to ashes, and disappear without leaving a trace. Or to tell them that they will live as long as the last one who can recall them is alive. A 50-50 prospect considering what they’d all become over the years. Time here was inexorable and did not leave a chance.

***

The first one who asked Sath what would be on the other side of life was not that old. It was only an accident that doomed him to a forthcoming death, and he, shivering in feverish delirium, suddenly asked to call him the seer who writes time.

Sath was not ready for this at all. Before, people died without asking questions. It wasn’t fatalism, but simply the course of life that invariably ended with death and sometimes with the physical dissolution that preceded it, but no one had ever asked what would happen afterwards. It would be a new stage in spiritual evolution, which no one has yet had time to think about.

The dying man smeared a vinegar-soaked rag off his forehead and grabbed Sath by the arm so hard that his fingers cracked.

It’s not over, is it? Tell me, is it really going to end stupidly like this? I lived, fought and worked the land. I taught people. My wife is young and beautiful, and my son is small, what will happen to them? You, who have been with us all this time, protecting and teaching us, you know the future better. My life will end and nothing will come after?

Would you like a follow-up?

I think death is like a dream—our eyes are closed, our hearts are slower, it’s like a little death, but in the morning, we wake up and we remember what happened to us while our bodies were still. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. I’ve decided that if you don’t come or you don’t have time for this, I’m going to assume that my theory is correct. What great purpose is in it? Sath shuddered at his words. We should get used to death from birth. And every dream we have, whether by the night or by the day, is a rehearsal of death. So, after we die, we just have to go once and for all into a dream, good or bad. Is that so?

No.

Then what?

Sleep is just a rest.

Death therefore is an eternal rest, the dying man nodded, agreeing with his own thoughts.

Also no. When you die, you are not falling asleep. You simply cease to exist.

So I would like to know what I was born for.

I can’t answer that question, Sath couldn’t explain it himself.

Even though I was made of mud and clay, someone breathed life into me, and I want to know where my life goes when I stop breathing? The spark that ignites in the eyes of a newborn baby, where does it go?

Sath could have told the truth—nowhere. It’s not going anywhere, there’s nothing else.

Tell me then, what is going to happen next? the dying man whispered so quietly that Sath had to bow down to his lips and whisper in the same way.

Nothing will happen. Nothing but emptiness and oblivion. There is no return from there.

From there? the dying man fell down in his bed with satisfaction. So the Great Place exists. And that’s where I will wait for everyone I’ve ever loved.

Not really… it’s not the Great Place but the Great Nothing.

Will my soul go there?

Even if it does, Sath suddenly thought of the flashing billions and trillions of weak electric shocks in the sky dome, you wouldn’t remember and recognise those you loved. You will become part of a common that does not exist. You will cease to exist. Your journey will end. And even if I am wrong, it will no longer be your soul, but your shadow, a weak reflection of you.

Okay, I’m going to go to the Shadow Realm and will be part of the common. But I understood what you meant. Death has nothing to do with us. When we are, there is no death, but when it comes, there is no us, right? His eyes suddenly lost their meaningfulness and stared at the ceiling.

So, my friend, that’s right. Sath closed his eyelids and shouted, Hey, somebody!

A boy entered the room with a gold obol² in his hands. Approaching the deceased, he put the coin in his limp open mouth.

What are you doing? Sath was surprised.

Giving him a way into the Shadow Realm, the boy replied seriously. I heard everything.

You’ve got it wrong.

I have understood enough. And what I heard made me happy. We will continue to live after death, just in another form, becoming a reflection of ourselves, part of a non-existent common in the Shadow Realm.

How was it possible to explain to the child something that Sath himself didn’t fully understand? How to tell him about the Great Nothing of which they were already a part of? So, he just nodded and went out.

***

Penemuel never attended the funerals, considering it a pointless waste of time. That’s why Sath’s path had become a familiar ritual, like when visiting Azael—down through Saint Louis’ Island, past Saint Paul, to Rue Pavée, number thirteen. Or, like today, along Chemin Vert, by Place de Vosges. Sath walked slowly, stopping by the shop windows, occasionally tapping his cane on a cobblestone. How many years had this useless act gone on? Infinity. Half an hour of talking about nothing, regrets about things not done, tea without cookies, a slightly sour smell of future putrefaction emanating from the bodies of two old men, a light sigh of farewell. Everything that becomes a heavy and unbearable communication duty for many years. But this time, he had a reason to come. The reason was a weighty and heavy burden of doubt he couldn’t share with anyone else, dragging him down, leaning to the ground and slowing his steps.

Sath opened the bright blue gate. The people inside looked at him as disapprovingly as usual. Some of them were clicking their tongues or turning away, the children in kippahs were pointing fingers. But he was used to it for so long that he stopped paying attention. As usual, he went up to the first floor and knocked on the doorpost before going in.

"Ma ata osa ahshav?"³

Penemuel, as usual, was sitting at a table by the window. In front of him, a boy about ten with his head on his shoulders, leant over a book, diligently tracing the lines with his finger and moving his lips. The boy shuddered at the question and cowered even more.

I’m reading, Master.

Penemuel lightly slapped the boy on the fingers with a stick.

"You’re reading the wrong line, tipesh⁴! Noticing Sath standing in the doorway, he tried to smile. You can go now. Take your violin and go away. Ad mahar⁵."

Sath sat down on an empty chair and shoved some papers off the table on to the floor. Penemuel tossed on his seat like a clumsy whale. His fingers clinged to the armrests and lifted him up. Slowly, shuffling on the floor with his slippers, he walked over to the coffee table to serve tea to his guest. Penemuel was not dissatisfied. He, the only one of the few, hardly ever felt discontent. Most of all in his life, Penemuel loved sound and therefore taught people to write and play music. Sath knew that Penemuel was involved in inventing some musical instruments, but even he, with all his talent, could not repeat at least remotely the sound they heard on the other side. Penemuel put up with this a long time ago and, unlike many others, he did it quite quickly, accepting his failure as part of Providence.

Why did you come back to the Yeshiva in your cassock? he grumbled. "You really have to irritate everyone. There is a reason why they call you the enemy⁶ of everything…"

"You know it isn’t true. People invented that name. They call you The One Inside God⁷. So what? You’re the one who people accused of teaching them to distinguish the bitter from the sweet, letting them write, reveal to them their wisdom and they’ve become sinners because that’s not what they were made for⁸. Much wisdom comes with much sorrow⁹, they said of you, not of me. What am I?"

Penemuel waved his hand impatiently.

Yes, I know, I know. I shouldn’t have. At least I haven’t tried for a while. From my heart, by the way. He put a little glass cup before Sath, like the ones they drink from in the East. What’s up? What’s the word?

Besides the passing of Azael, which you ignored, there’s something else…

You know how much I hate this. All these funerals, farewells, those old men with sad faces, disgusting to look at. They don’t even talk to each other anymore. And I understand them. What can you talk about after so long? Everything is agreed and discussed; it remains only to wait for the end. They stand there in a circle and envy, they think someone has made it, and they still live in a decrepit body, losing part of their memory and sanity every day. No, it’s not for me! So, what else do you have there?

Sath shook his head. If he had been braver, he wouldn’t have gone to the funeral either. He ignored many of them, but they were others, and this was Azael. He shook his head again.

Turn on the TV, if you please. I’d like to consult with you because it seems my eyes are fooling me and my brain is getting as weak as all of yours.

And what haven’t I seen on your TV?

Turn it on, you stubborn one, maybe I was just wrong, or maybe not.

Penemuel shifted in his chair, swiping his hands on the table when looking for the remote control.

Which channel do you prefer?

"The News, Penemuel, or do you think I came to you to watch The Sound of Music together? If Hell really existed, that film would be included in the mandatory torture programme for sinful souls."

Penemuel quacked and clicked on the remote. A small old TV in the corner of the room creaked and turned on. Stock quotes, political debate. Penemuel yawned.

You know, Sath, I taught Charles Dow to play the piano. The family wasn’t rich, the piano was old and always out of tune, even if I tried to fix it, but the boy had real talent. Sometimes it is even a shame that he prefers letters and numbers. Would you like more tea?

Sath pressed his finger to his lips, urging Penemuel to shut up, and pointed to the TV. Penemuel looked at the screen and shrunk, transforming from a huge blue whale into a scared little fish in a second. His lips folded into a thin line, he blinked several times, like a child about to cry, and looked away.

What is that? his voice was shaking and sounded fragile and old, like an autumn leaf at the beginning of frost.

Sath shrugged.

It seemed to me like it seemed to you. This is why I have come to ask your opinion.

Is that a joke? Penemuel wiped sweat from his forehead. Maybe just a religious fanatic who went bonkers before Easter. It happens to them. I mean, they are…

Look again, Penemuel, and tell me yourself.

With fear flooding his entire guts like a mudflow, Penemuel did not immediately press the sound button and swore loudly for some reason in Latin.

I mean, this is…

Do you think so too?

They haven’t done this for many, many bloody years. Nobody has believed in us for a long time, and among the ways to intimidate ordinary people, this one isn’t the most popular one anymore. There is, after all, the propaganda that they’ve invented, the wars that they’ve set up, the diseases that…

Just tell me, Penemuel, is that who I think it is?

The man on the screen was battling in the hands of the police, his face was bent with anger, he was bulging his eyes out frighteningly and squeaking something obscure in rotten Aramaic. Suddenly, for a split second, his face smoothed and he looked directly into the camera.

Zophiel… Penemuel and Sath exhaled at the same time.

"Why Zophiel¹⁰? Why him exactly? What do they want from us? We already decided everything years ago. Why are they?" Penemuel was close to hysteria.

Accused of having organised the preparation of terrorist attacks, no identity has been established, supposedly he arrived in France from a country controlled by Al-Qaeda. The passport is missing, he’s not listed in the Interpol database, wearily fed into the camera by an overweight policeman. Sath knew him, too, and was even surprised to see how destinies converge and diverge.

This is for us. I was wrong to tell Daniel today that nothing has changed. Something has happened… Sath felt an unpleasant tickle in his stomach, a premonition of the irreversible, as if a huge insect that had long settled inside of him had wiggled its legs and grown in size.

Will you tell Lucius?

I do not know yet. But I am sure Lucius knows about it. He knows a lot more than we do.

Sath finished his tea with one sip and got up.

And what do we do about it? Wait for more instructions?

Penemuel shook his grey head in confusion.

Mysterious ways… he hesitated, …they work in.

Already at the doorstep, Sath, without turning around, said, See you soon, Penemuel. I guess the end is really near. But that doesn’t give us hope.

***

The city was white. Covered by the dome of the sky, flashing with millions of sparks, it seemed eternal. It was eternal, as far as Sath knew. It existed as long as Sath remembered himself. It existed before Sath, and probably before anyone who lived here. Well, life isn’t exactly the proper word for the inhabitants of White City, but Sath got used to it.

In the city, outside of which there was nothing but emptiness, life seemed neither a gift nor a blessing. But that was not subsistence either. Everyone had a function similar to work. Not the kind of work that was paid for, but the kind that gave them a sense of usefulness. An ideal society built into a perfect city arranged as a spiral of a single house with an endless enfilade of the rooms rising to the top of the hill and resembling a wasp’s nest.

They knew nothing but it and accepted the city as part of themselves. Strictly speaking, they were allowed quite a lot. Helel was one of the very first to be there and enjoyed almost unlimited freedom of action and movement. His name meant simply The Shining that led to the notion that he was part of the light that illuminated the heavenly city. So, somehow Ben Shahar¹¹ was added to Helel as a confirmation of his importance in this place. But Helel desperately disliked the cumbersomeness of his name, so it was discreetly changed to Lucius, which meant exactly the same but sounded more beautiful to him. No, there was no language as such. It’s just that by opening their eyes for the first time, they already knew how to identify themselves and others. And what to do; it was Providence.

Sath always wrote—he found flaws, missteps, and fixed them, anything that was not visible at first glance was revealed to him. Lucius was always in charge. He couldn’t help it. Selafiel¹² was approached when there was something to gain, whether it was new clothes or materials for work. They came to Hesadiel¹³ to calm down. Yet, they hardly felt any emotions—here in the perfect city in the perfect society, there was no envy, no anger, no despair; they were all equal, they were not oppressed, their work was treated with understanding and attention. But everyone was well aware that if there wasn’t a whole universe of glial cells inside, they wouldn’t be able to walk, talk or think. Everything was initially subordinate to physics, and physics was the beginning. Electricity, for example, allowed them to think, but the chemistry was involved in emotions. It too was part of the purpose, but not the one that was given priority. Maybe it was for nothing. Sath believed that the huge science project initially had flaws.

No one lived outside the White City. At least that’s what they said, and everybody believed it, although, as scientists, they should have doubted it. But it never occurred to anyone. It was his purpose: this city, this sky and what was underneath the city, and above the city. He himself was seen by no one, his words were always Mattatron—he appeared nearby, and the voice they used to think of as the voice of the Creator, immediately began to sound in their heads, giving orders and instructions, praising or censuring. Neither Sath, nor Lucius, nor anyone else, cared why. Until the day Lucius came to see Sath, who was deep in the papers, and asked him, Tell me, because you are smarter than me… He took a pause, allowing Sath to enjoy a little