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Pyotr Andreevich got up and poured some water from a canister into a beat-up, soot-
covered kettle, and hung it over the flame. In a few minutes, the kettle b egan to whistle as it came to a boil. The sound, so domestic and comfo rting, made Artyom feel warmer and calmer. He looked around at the m en who were sitting at the fire: all of them strong dependable people, ha rdened by the challenging life they led here. You could trust men like the se; you could count on them. Their station always had the reputation for being the most successful along the entire line - and that was all than ks to the men gathered here, and to others like them. They were all con nected to each other with warm, almost brotherly bonds.
Artyom was just over twenty years old and had come into the world whe n life was still up there, on the surface. He wasn't as thin and pale as th e others who'd been born in the metro, who wouldn't dare go up to the s urface for fear of radiation and the searing rays of the sun, which are so ruinous for underground dwellers. True, even Artyom, as far as he coul d remember, had been on the surface only once, and then it was only fo r a moment - the background radiation there had been so bad that any one who got a bit too curious would be completely fried within a couple of hours, before he'd even managed to enjoy a good stroll, and see his fi II of the bizarre world that lay on the surface.
He didn't remember his father at all. His mother had been with him until he was five years old. They lived at Timiryazevskaya. Things had been good, and life had gone smoothly and peacefully, until Timiryazevskaya fell victim to a rat infestation.