The smell knocked down. He was even stronger than the poppy field dope. Thicker, sharper, more diverse. There was no such thing anywhere in Europe, and it could not be. A damn lot of time ago, European myths and monsters were interrupted by the Office, then still the Order, and who was not touched was driven into reservations, where they still rot in their stinking mess of smells. Ed did not like reservations, but on duty he often visited there, so he knew very well how all kinds of half-dead scum smelled. But here, in the new Moscow, "his Russia," such a hurricane raged that it still circled its head. And they were smells he never knew. He even liked others...