“A dry snowstorm hit the glass. The tongue of the candle fluttered. Shadows jumped on the wallpaper. Anya was sleeping with her face turned to the wall. Blonde hair was scattered across the pillow. Boris couldn't sleep. He sat on the bed, his bare feet on the carpet, and, hypnotized, watched the trembling of the fire moth. The incomprehensible thing that lay ahead of him had been keeping him in nervous tension for several days now. A huge burden pressed on my shoulders - I couldn’t straighten up, I couldn’t breathe deeply. It was strange to think that not a single person in a city of a million suspects what a great secret the modest private assistant professor Belyaev, who a week ago was serenely teaching a course in celestial mechanics at the university, carries within himself...”