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Kovalin’s eyes that deeply disquieted him. They seemed too dark, too opaque.
    “I am a member of an organization formed in the late nineteenth century, dedicated to solving the occult mysteries that seem to weigh so heavily upon us here in Russia. Rasputin was our last study—another man who took an unnaturally long time to die. The changes scattered us, drove us underground. We were persecuted as counterrevolutionaries. Now that the Soviet Union is no more, we have once again emerged. We began the century as mystics, but we ended it as scientists.”
    “And where do the
rusalki
come from, in your opinion? Another world? Like the little grey aliens of the Americans?”
    “In my opinion . . .” Kovalin considered the question for a moment. “They are from another world, but perhaps not in the sense that you might mean it.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “I’ve said they do not use technology that we are aware of. No spaceships, no ray guns, no robots. And yet they have astonishing abilities—like your own, but much greater—and they are able to slip in and out of this reality.”
    “What makes you so sure they’re not supernatural, then?”
    “Did I say that I was sure? They are certainly supernatural, in one sense of the word. They do not obey physical laws as we know them.”
    “Why are you telling me this now?” Ilya asked.
    “Because we have only just tracked you down. I told you, our organization was thrown into upheaval during the last century, persecuted and scattered. Many of us went into the parapsychology programs run by the KGB, but the politicians disapproved of us. There weren’t many five-year plans for supernatural endeavors.
Perestroika
has proved a mixed blessing. We have regrouped; we have a measure of governmental approval, but like everyone else, little in the way of funds. I am on your side, Ilya Vladimirievitch Muromyets.” He used the patronymic without mockery. “I want to help. But in doing so, you can also help us.”
    “How?”
    “I told you that I have dissected a
rusalka.
In fact, I have had the privilege of examining one of the creatures. We captured it in the forests near our facility; it was weak and sick. In the folds of its clothing—a kind of robe—we found something. It was made of an unknown metal, but shaped like a fossil: an ammonite, perhaps. We removed the object and placed it in a safe container; it spun a hard web around itself, as if for protection. It now resembles a small black ball. A day later, a second
rusalka
entered the compound—we have no idea how, since it is guarded and sealed—and tried to seize the object. It took a great risk, and it was not successful. We killed it.”
    “How?” Ilya demanded.
    “We shot it before it had time to generate its illusions. It was deemed too dangerous to keep the object at the facility any longer, and so a member of the organization was sent south, to Uzbekistan. He has not made contact, and we don’t know what has happened to him. We searched the border traffic as best we could, but found nothing. Word has come, however, that traces of the thing have been detected in Almaty, in Kazakhstan. I would like you to find it.”
    The
volkh
’s gaze slid blandly away, and it was then that Ilya realized that Kovalin knew very well what this object might be, but was keeping it to himself. And the story he had just told seemed too glib, too rehearsed. Ilya’s long life had left him well able to smell out a lie. “Clearly, it seems to be valuable to them,” Kovalin went on smoothly.
    “What sort of traces?”
    “The object seems to have an
effect
on the world around it. Reality shifts, alters.”
    “How?”
    “Strange weather conditions, curious phenomena. Our information is limited.”
    “Why should I help you?” Ilya asked, sitting back down on the bed. “Why can’t you search for this thing yourself? Why, indeed, should I even believe you?”
    “Because I have other duties. And if you succeed, Ilya