After walking a few blocks, they came out onto a spacious square. There was a strange contrast: among the familiar American skyscrapers, monumental monuments towered, as if torn from another time and space. In the center of the square stood an impressive monument to Lenin, directing its stern gaze somewhere into the distance. At the edges stood bronze statues of Dzerzhinsky and other revolutionaries, and a little to the side stood an obelisk with the inscription "Glory to Labor".
"What kind of theater of the absurd is this?" Peter exclaimed, stopping dead in his tracks. "We're in New York, aren't we?"
"It looks like someone decided to create their own little copy of Moscow here," snorted Jennings, looking at Dzerzhinsky's figure with distrust. "But I don't remember there being a cult of Soviet figures in the States."
Delia Asia Vieira frowned, lost in thought. She slowly walked up to the Glory to Labor obelisk and sat down at its base to rest.
"We've seen a lot of strange things, but this..." Delia Asia Vieira thought, her metal fingers tapping nervously on the granite plinth. "This is some kind of symbol. Someone left it here on purpose. Perhaps to confuse us."
"Maybe this is all part of some game to scare us or confuse us," Jennings suggested, lighting a cigarette. "But who and why?"
"It's not who, it's why," Peter interjected, looking from one monument to the other. "Perhaps it's a warning. Or a challenge."
Suddenly they saw a lone figure sitting at the foot of the Glory to Labor obelisk. The man was thin and bent, as if time had left deep marks on his body. His face, covered with wrinkles, seemed ancient, and his eyes were fixed on a single point on the ground in front of him.
Feeling their presence, he slowly raised his head. A faint smile appeared on the old man's face, but it was not friendly - rather, it was mysterious, like someone who knows too much to simply look at the world with indifference.
"Don't be afraid, my friends," he said in a hoarse voice. "I know what you are doing here."
Jennings became alert and took a step forward, trying to make out the old man's face in the shadow of the obelisk.
"Who are you?" he asked, clutching a small self-defense knife in his pocket.
The old man just shook his head slightly, as if it was a stupid question. He continued speaking, but his voice dropped to a whisper, as if he was speaking more to himself than to them.
"I know, I know..." he whispered, his gaze falling to the ground again, where a tiny hole in the ground lay, framed by a thin red scratch, as if it had been pierced by an invisible razor. "There is no land between them... No land between those who seek and those who hide."
Delia Asia Vieira leaned closer, trying to understand the meaning of his words.
"What are you talking about?" Her voice was even, but there was tension in it. "Who are you waiting for here? And what do you know about us?"
The old man raised his dim eyes to her, and a shadow of recognition flashed in them.
"Ah, child... You seek answers, but you will not like all of them," he suddenly burst into laughter, but the laughter was dry and joyless, like the rustle of old leaves. "You came here to seek the truth, but the truth, like this scratch, is hiding right under your feet."
"You're talking nonsense," Peter muttered, frowning in displeasure. "We're just trying to find a way out of this nightmare."
But the old man only laughed again, and this time his laughter echoed off the granite walls of the obelisk.
"Watch your feet, my children," he said, pointing to the hole in front of him. "Where there is no ground, the path to what you seek begins."
Delia Asia Vieira frowned and, following his instructions, walked closer, crouched down and peered at the red line surrounding the ground. It looked like a cut, but how it had appeared was unclear.
"What is this?" she muttered, touching the line with her finger.
"It's a rift," the old man replied, finally rising to his feet. His movements were slow but determined. "A rift between your illusions and reality."
Jennings, unable to bear it any longer, stepped forward and grabbed the old man by the collar.
"Enough riddles!" he shouted. "Tell me straight: who are you and what do you want from us?"
The old man only smiled sadly, his wrinkled face distorted with fatigue.
"I am the one who has always been here when someone tries to learn more than they should," he whispered. "But you have little time, my friends. This place... it is already beginning to consume you. If you wish to leave, you must make a choice. Right here and now."
Delia Asia Vieira, Peter and Jennings looked at each other. The decision they had to make suddenly seemed far more terrifying than all the strange things they had encountered along the way.
"What choice?" Delia Asia Vieira asked quietly, feeling the ground beneath her feet begin to shake.
The old man turned and, without looking back, walked away into the dark alley, leaving them alone with their questions.
"We have to leave, and quickly," Delia Asia Vieira said, looking around. "I don't know what he meant, but I don't like it."
"Then let's go," Jennings nodded, nudging Peter. "We've already lost too much time."
They left the square without looking back, feeling the air around them growing heavier.
Cars sped past, headlights flashing in the night, as Delia Asia Vieira, Jennings, and Peter Reynolds tried to cross a busy New York street. The streets were like a river, but there was something wrong with the chaos. With every step they took, they felt more and more like they were entering a strange space, where reality seemed to slip from its familiar framework.
"There's something wrong here," muttered Delia Asia Vieira, stopping in the middle of the road and looking around. "Look!"
She pointed ahead, and Peter and Jennings noticed something they hadn't noticed before. The moving cars seemed to vanish into thin air, and in an instant they were underwater. Bright fish swam around them, and they were surrounded by a blue, shimmering depth, as if the city had suddenly been submerged by the sea.
"What the hell?!" Jennings cursed, instinctively holding his breath before realizing he could still breathe. "We're underwater, but... we're not drowning!"
Peter, choking with surprise, looked at the robotess.
"It's... an illusion? But why does it seem so real?"
"It may be a hoax," Delia Asia Vieira responded, looking around, "but we'd better not linger here."
Suddenly, chaos erupted around them. Groups of people dressed in military-style clothing rushed at each other as if they were fighting on a battlefield. The sounds of blows, screams, and splashes of water filled the space. Delia Asia Vieira froze, watching as two men with different flags on their shoulders engaged in a fierce fight.
"The French and the Germans?!" Jennings frowned, trying to understand what was going on. "Is this some kind of historical play?"
Peter, looking around in confusion, shouted:
"But we're underwater! How are they even fighting here?!"
Their doubts were reinforced when new figures suddenly entered the fray: Japanese in samurai armor and Brazilians in football uniforms, as if someone had decided to mix all eras and cultures into one crazy whirlpool.
"I don't like this," Delia Asia Vieira said, grabbing Peter's arm and pulling him close. "We need to move on before we get sucked into this madness."
However, they were stopped by a strange man in a bright red suit with a travel agency logo on his chest. He looked completely out of place among the fighting figures.
"Welcome to the most incredible show on earth!" he shouted with a beaming smile. "Travel agency "World Adventures" offers you a unique experience of immersion in alternative realities! Do you want to know who will win this underwater war?"
Jennings squinted, trying to see if the man was joking.
"This... is all a setup?" He looked from the "tour operator" to the people desperately trying to drown each other in the water.
The man just smiled mysteriously.
"Who knows what is real and what is not?" With these words, he winked at them and disappeared into thin air, leaving behind only a light trail of soap bubbles.
"Damn it, we're on some kind of goddamn quest!" Jennings roared, punching the water, which suddenly scattered as if the illusion had vanished.
Delia Asia Vieira realized she had to get out of here immediately. She grabbed Peter's hand and shouted to Jennings:
"Hurry, before this "tour" slams shut on us!"
The trio rushed forward, not looking back at what they had left behind. The water around them turned back into the ordinary asphalt of New York streets, but the strange feeling of unreality did not leave them.
"It was pure madness," Peter muttered, breathing heavily. "Or just a very expensive stunt."
"I don't know," Delia Asia Vieira said, still recovering. "But if it was a trick, its purpose is still unclear. Someone was trying to confuse us. And they almost succeeded."
"Or maybe it's a warning?" Jennings said thoughtfully, looking at the building in the distance, where neon signs were flashing.
"Warning or trap," Delia Asia Vieira said, moving forward with determination. "But I'm not going to let it throw us off course."
After a strange adventure in the whirlpool of illusions on the streets of New York, Delia Asia Vieira, Peter Reynolds and Jennings decided to take refuge from the growing chaos. They turned into a narrow street, tired of the constant buzz of the city, and came across a small, almost unnoticeable shop with a sign "Everything and now".
"Let's go in here," Delia Asia Vieira suggested, looking around at her companions. "We need to at least catch our breath a little."
Peter shrugged, and Jennings nodded, still breathing heavily from his recent escape. The doorbell rang softly as they stepped inside. The shop was cozily dim, the walls lined with shelves of everything from old books to bottles of exotic spices.
Delia Asia Vieira immediately noticed the figure behind the counter, an older man in a salesman's uniform. She froze for a moment, recognizing him. It was Detective Earl Knight. He looked like he belonged there: an old-fashioned apron, wire-rimmed glasses, and a friendly smile on his wrinkled face.
"How can I help you, miss?" Knight asked cheerfully, winking at her in a way that only a sharp eye could notice. "We have a discount today on everything that can save the world, or at least your nerves."
Delia Asia Vieira barely suppressed a smile and came closer.
"Don't blow the whistle, Detective," she whispered, leaning toward him. "What is it this time? Hiding from someone or just changing your role?"
Earl chuckled softly, looking at her from under his thick eyebrows.
"And you're still as perceptive as ever," he replied. "I'd say it's just a cover... But you know, we old people have our secrets." He smiled even wider. "So, what brought you to this humble corner?"
Peter and Jennings, standing a little further away, exchanged glances. Jennings, fiddling with the edge of his jacket, leaned toward Peter and whispered:
"You know him too, right? He's the same detective who got us out of trouble in Westchester."
Peter nodded and finally decided to speak:
"Mr. Knight, we have... problems again. You're not just hiding here, are you?"
Earl pretended to weigh something on the shelf in front of him, then turned and said in a loud whisper:
"I suppose you need more than just shelter from the bustle of the streets." He tapped his finger on the counter. "How about a cup of tea? And perhaps... a story or two that will help you understand what's really going on here?"
Delia Asia Vieira nodded, and he motioned them into the back of the store. They walked through a curtain leading to the back room and into a small room with a low table and an antique chair. Earl poured them hot tea and set a plate of cookies in front of them.
"So," he began, sitting down opposite her, "you know New York is on edge right now, don't you? The illusions, the false tours, and those mysterious figures on the streets - it's not just for nothing. Forces that even I know little about are trying to pull something off.
"What should we do?" Delia Asia Vieira interrupted. "We can't just sit around and drink tea."
Earl narrowed his eyes slyly.
"Have you ever known me as the type to sit and do nothing? I have a plan. But before I tell you what to do, I need something from you." He looked at them seriously. "There is information that has eluded me... and I suspect you have it.
Jennings became wary.
"What information?"
Earl grinned and leaned forward.
"Your last meeting with Mr. York. I know there was something important there that you didn't tell me."
Delia Asia Vieira and her companions exchanged glances. The silence in the room became oppressive.
"Maybe you have something to tell," Earl added, leaning back in his chair and pretending to get a cigarette. "And maybe we can help each other out of this nightmare."
Peter leaned forward and whispered quietly to the robotess:
"Do you think he can be trusted?"
Delia Asia Vieira looked at Earl and nodded:
"I think so. But only if he's willing to play by our rules."
Earl, hearing this, laughed cheerfully.
"Oh, believe me, my dear, I'm always ready to play by someone else's rules... as long as it doesn't lead me to victory."
When the tea was finished and the biscuits had disappeared from the plate, a short but comfortable silence fell over the room. Earl Knight sighed and leaned back in his chair, looking intently at his interlocutors, as if he expected them to speak first. But suddenly Jennings, putting aside his empty cup, unexpectedly broke the silence:
"Tell me, Mr. Knight," he began, straightening up and looking straight at the detective, "how do you feel about the fact that there are so many different languages in our world?"
Earl raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised by this turn of the conversation. He clearly hadn't expected philosophical questions after all the dangers and secrets they'd discussed a minute ago. But Delia Asia Vieira, her head cocked in interest, kept her eyes on the detective, anticipating his answer.
"Well, that's a rather unexpected question," Knight drawled, stroking his grey beard. "But an interesting one, I admit. What exactly are you interested in, Jennings? Languages are complex things, and the world is only richer for it."
"You see," Jennings continued, clearly thinking aloud, "if there were only two or three languages in the world instead of hundreds, wouldn't it be easier for us all to understand each other? Perhaps then there wouldn't be such difficulties in communication, in diplomacy, in culture. But, on the other hand, if we all spoke the same language... wouldn't Shakespeare and his tragedies and comedies disappear? Or Pushkin and his poems and novels? After all, their work is inextricably linked with the unique languages in which they wrote.
Earl Knight looked at Jennings carefully, as if trying to understand what was behind his words. Then he nodded slowly.
"You're right, Jennings," the detective replied, smiling with the corners of his lips. "Languages are like different colors on an artist's palette. If we only had black and white, the world might be simpler, but wouldn't it lose all its beauty? Imagine a world without Romeo and Juliet or Eugene Onegin. These works are not simply written in a certain language, they are born of it. If Shakespeare had written in another language, his plays would have been completely different. The same with Pushkin."
Delia Asia Vieira, listening to their conversation, only smiled quietly, trying to comprehend this conversation about languages, especially given her own nature - after all, as a robot, it ultimately did not matter to her which language she spoke. She could instantly switch between any of them, but she understood that there was something more to these words than just linguistics.
Peter, who had been listening silently until then, suddenly added:
"But if we had one language, wouldn't we be closer to each other? Wouldn't we be able to solve problems faster, avoid conflicts?"
Earl chuckled and shook his head:
"Maybe, Peter. But imagine: if we only had one language, wouldn't we lose part of what makes us human? After all, language is not just words and rules. It is our way of thinking, feeling, expressing ourselves. Languages are like different musical instruments. Some sound like a violin, others like a drum. Take them away, and the world becomes quieter, but poorer."
Jennings, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, chuckled slightly.
"So you think that linguistic diversity is a wealth, not a hindrance?"
"Exactly," answered Earl. "And you are right, Jennings, if we had only two languages, Shakespeare and Pushkin would probably never have come into being. But perhaps there would have been other geniuses, other tragedies and comedies that we cannot even imagine."
There was a moment of silence. Delia Asia Vieira ran her finger thoughtfully along the rim of her cup, then suddenly said:
"Perhaps it is precisely because we are so different and speak different languages that the world has not collapsed yet. We have something to translate, to understand, to learn... and this gives us a chance."
Earl smiled again, looking at her with a slight warmth in his eyes.
"You may be right, miss."
Peter Reynolds, who had been thoughtfully chewing the remaining biscuits all this time, suddenly perked up and, raising his head, addressed everyone:
"Did you know that this year marks the centenary of John Lennon's birth?" he began, trying to speak confidently. "I want to tell you about his life. About how he was born in Liverpool, how he began writing his songs, and how he eventually became part of the legendary group The Beatles. It was a great life...
But before he could finish, Jennings stopped him with his hand outstretched.
"Peter, Peter, wait a minute," Jennings interrupted with a good-natured smile and a shake of his head. "It's all very well that you want to tell us Lennon's story, but..." He chuckled and sighed. "Coming from a boy like you, it's going to sound a little... odd, confusing, and, I'm afraid, incomprehensible to most people."
Peter frowned, looking at Jennings with confusion.
"Why?" he objected stubbornly, pursing his lips. "Can't I talk about what interests me? Lennon was a genius! He sang about peace and love, about people coming together. Isn't that important?"
"It's important, Peter," Delia Asia Vieira said softly, leaning against the wall and looking at the boy carefully. "But Jennings is right: when you talk about great people like Lennon, it's important that your words are clear and inspiring. And that takes a little experience and an understanding of what you want to say. Maybe Jennings can help you?"
Jennings nodded, moving closer to Peter.
"Listen, kid," he said, clapping the boy on the shoulder, "when I anchored the evening news, my job was to make sure every word was delivered with conviction and got through to the viewers. Do you know how hard it is when you only have a couple of minutes to get your point across? If you want, I can help you craft a Lennon speech. We'll make it crisp, clear, and inspiring. That way, you'll be sure to get your heart across."
Peter sighed, thinking about Jennings' words. Then he nodded and smiled slightly.
"Okay," he finally said. "I'm willing to try. It's just... I want people to remember him not just as a musician, but as a man who believed the world could be a better place."
"That's great, Peter!" Delia Asia Vieira encouraged him, touching his shoulder gently. "You can do it. We'll all listen to you."
Jennings grinned and clapped his hands.
"Well then, we will begin preparing your speech here and now. Miss, you will be our critic, and I will be our mentor. How do you like this plan, Peter?"
"Agreed," the boy nodded, smiling wider. "Thank you both!"