The way I pictured it, training in something non-human ought to begin with something non-human. Wei Lin put an apple on the table.
An ordinary one, green, with a sticker that said “Moldova.” I mentally estimated its cost (about eighty rubles at the nearest grocery store) and calorie count (roughly fifty-two kilocalories) and waited for the magic to start. Or the lecture. Or anything that would explain why five adults were sitting in the folded space of a suburban dacha staring at an eighty-ruble apple.
— What do you see? — asked Wei Lin.
— An apple, — said Artyom. In the tone of a field report.
— Green, — I added. — Moldovan. With a sticker.
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