– Here are the politicians," the voice of the one who had just made an important and instructive speech sounded depressed.
"What other politicians are there?" – questioned one part of Rutra's brain. While the other was going through the many options associated with the question-how did that word apply to this situation?
Trying to tear his gaze away from the madness in the Jew's eyes – though he was dressed more like a Bedouin, the six-pointed star (magendavid) branded on his face left no doubt – Ruthra, feeling unconsciously anxious, turned around. What he saw gave him an answer, but it was from a different realm, though Ruthra was still questioning whether it was the right one. He was partially aware of the elite unit of the Selekwid army. The director's idea didn't surprise him much, but the horror in his gaze… something on the level of his instincts… spoke of its reality.
In the Seleucid state there was a mounted militia, recruited from the inhabitants of the cities and called "politics". This cavalry consisted of the wealthiest city dwellers.
"It's all very real," Ruthra pondered to himself, "but it's still a production. Or…"
A group of men were approaching the oasis, shouting and screaming, pursued by another group, mostly horsemen. Ruthra couldn't decide how to proceed: if it was a staging, there was nothing to fear, and if it wasn't… Well, hell, what the hell else was "not," he caught himself thinking: it was a staging. He stepped out to meet the approaching pursuing group, and just as they were approaching and the pursuers were catching up, the leader of the mounted men raised his saber, shouted… Ruthra didn't have time to be frightened, the stupid scene had put him in a state of both joy and indignation. A burning pain pierced his brain, and then his body. What came next was a fog. The only thing his consciousness had time to decipher was the wild cry of the horsemen; it was an expression in one of the Koine dialects3 that said "cut off their heads.
***
– Rutra Tigrovich, you probably didn't pass the experiment," said the "leader of the politicians", putting his saber in its scabbard.
Ruthra sighed with an incomprehensible state of mind and asked:
– What else?
– Nothing," replied the psychoanalyst, who had suddenly emerged from the crowd of pursuers in similar attire to his own, "you should have saved yourself. And you're standing here waiting to be slaughtered.
– This is the experiment?
– You're likely to encounter something like this.
– It's a kindergarten. So what if my body's in the rig?
– You don't say. The body is the body, and stress is stress. If stress affects the body even after years and manifests itself in a completely unexpected form, up to suicide or some actions of a maniac, why do not you take into account the impact of stress on your actions in the other world? It's very fraught. At least you yourself said about the butterfly effect – there can be a quarrel there, and here there is an international conflict. If you're killed, there's no telling how tragically it will affect the events of our world. Maybe someone will be killed there, and here some bomber will be born… or worse – a crazy politician will ascend to the throne of a nuclear power.
– Let's not get too excited. Let's go. And I'm not playing any more of these games. Send me, or rather, my consciousness to the universe. And then we'll see what these parallel worlds are like. Maybe they don't exist at all, and all these techniques, including Rangit's, are an illusion. Or rather, his falsification.
