Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

on the injector, and inject yourself with a dose of youth. You get up on your legs and return to your home base, and there the time-therapist fixes you up to your original condition.”

“And where’s that base?”

“Right here,” Gregor pulled out of his pocket a magnetic card – a gray one without any writing on it.

“I don’t see anything,” Max scratched himself.

“On the edge of the karte are tiny numbers. The first seven are the code for the name of the street. That is, the cardinal numbers matching the letters of the alphabet that you put together when you let at least one neuron into your single- celled brein. The last three numbers – the number of the building. Without the karte you won’t get in here. Keep it. You’re in now. Max grew pensive. In his hands he weighed the two chronomatizers and endeavored to feel the weight of time in his brother's device. And he didn't feel anything. Thirty years didn't weigh anything. For a moment Max became faint. When he looked at Gregor, it came to mind that this age distance between them could now be overcome. Even moreso... And here, like a lightning bolt, a certain ugly thought that instantly became covered in the flesh of reality threaded through his brain.

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