Chapters of the Beginning I

The only difference between the Being and the Void is just one left turn.

Some might think that the best place for a decent discussion on the subject of philosophy or politics (or whatever fancy) is some sort of a room with dim candle light, heavy burgundy curtains, genuine XVIII century chest-of-drawers and a portrait of some great writer with a crow's nest on the head and an intimidatingly sophisticated expression on his writerest face. But it's not completely so. The best place to throw off all the scruples and argue about your opinion with some learned gentlemen is the beer-house (or, to describe it better, the beer-stall with tall round beer-tables without beer-seats) of Kazansky Railway Station in Moscow.

Right now there were four people, including Vladimir Pisetsky, or 'Volodya' for friends. He was an upright lad of twenty-five with those hot graying whiskers and a look of an utter lack of understanding of how he ended up here. His briefcase with all sorts of identical t-shirts and jeans stood beside him. In his hands he was clenching a drink smelling of the worst alcohol in the whole post-soviet region. He was just of the sort of people who value their creativity and individuality: no money, no job, a sad facebook status and a major in Medieval History. Right at that moment he was trying to follow the discussion through the painted veil of vodka he drank with beer.

"...so since that time, I guess," a credible young man with a Slayer logo on his t-shirt was saying, "we couldn't trust these fools in charge. Khrushchev ruined..."

"Damn Khrushchev, we had fools before him." The girl in khaki cargo pants and paramilitary tank top looked both angry and bored. "Our country was founded by them. Tell them, doc."

Vladimir vaguely nodded at whatever he was asked to agree with.

"Anyway, I wasn't talking about the government." she drank her beer in one gulp and continued. "I was telling you about... damn, Pasha, what I was telling you dorks about?"

"Dunno," said the Slayer lad, who turned out to be Pasha, "I wasn't really listening."
Suddenly the lights grew dim and Vladimir felt slipping away. He found himself in a fancy Cold War bunker, with those three strangers he was just drinking with. Everyone was dressed in soviet military uniform: the Slayer lad, Pasha, had radio-engineer's jacket, the girl was wearing KGB coat, the third guy, a thirty-something pal with a look of a poet, was dressed as a navy officer. The girl kept talking.

"It was when Americans landed on the Moon..."

"Oh here she goes again, that was all right with the Americans." Pasha said.

"Shut up and listen to me. Do you know what they got from there?"

Vladimir's mind suddenly drifted away from his body. He felt possessed by whatever demons lived in that alcohol he was drinking. He saw time. He saw space. Trilobites, quasars, cacti, cavemen, Pontius Pilate washing his hands, he saw giant mosquitoes and squids and tiny magnetars, spinning away in a far galaxy, he saw a dolphin, a telephone, a man with a red hand, a stratocaster, neon lights of a casino. He saw the moon. He stood there, on a flat lifeless rock, he was observing another man. The man was choking, gasping for air. Vladimir's head ached like hell, he couldn't do anything about the delusion. In fast forward he saw NASA packing up a zinc box, sending it somewhere, receiving it. He saw reds and the Cold War.

There was no alien in Roswell.

The hallucination stopped as soon as it appeared. It was the beer-house at the Kazansky, and four of them were still standing by the tall table.

"A body of a dead man," the girl said in a conspiratorial tone. "They found it on the Moon."

"Nah, so what?" the poetic guy said. "I heard people die even in Canada, why can't they die on the Moon?"

"No big deal." Pasha agreed. "But I heard the thing too."

"What about you, doc?" The girl suddenly remembered about Vladimir, but he was so bewildered with the hallucination that he couldn't answer.

"Leave him, he's drunk." Pasha drawled.

"Thought he had only one beer."

"Nah, I guess it was a yorsh."

"Nevermind, what's with that dead pal from the Moon?" The poetic guy seemed uninterested but he realized that there still was nothing else to talk about.

"Though it's nothing special about dying on the Moon," the girl continued, "The thing is about how he got there, that question's far too obvious. And I heard some shite going on in Moscow."

"Everything going on in Moscow is shite."

"That is some special sort of shite. Haven't you noticed the military in the city? Searching every second person, questioning every fifth one. The police seems to be looking for something too. Damn, haven't you noticed?"

"Too much action for these days." Pasha scratched his chin. "I thought some criminals have escaped."

"Which sort of a criminal needs military to be caught? They are looking for something. I bet my drink it's something about the dead man."

"It was more than forty years ago."

"Maybe they've been searching for the whole time, and now they just got closer."

“Maybe I know what they are looking for.” Vladimir thought suddenly.

Dead Man on the Moon