Roadside Picnic

2

^{REDRICK SCHUHART, 28 YEARS OLD, MARRRIED. NO KNOWN OCCUPATION.}

Redrick Schuhart lay behind a tombstone and, holding a tree branch out of the way, looked at the road. The patrol car’s searchlights darted around the cemetery, and when they flashed into his eyes, he squinted and held his breath.

Two hours had already passed, but the situation on the road hadn’t changed. The car, motor rumbling steadily as it idled, stood in the same place and continued to probe with its searchlights, combing the unkempt, neglected graves, the slanted rusty crosses, the overgrown ash trees, and the crest of the nine-foot wall that ended to the left. The patrols were afraid of the Zone. They never got out of the car. Here, near the cemetery, they didn’t even have the guts to fire. Occasionally, Redrick heard muffled voices; sometimes he’d see the flash of a cigarette butt fly out of the car and roll along the road, bouncing up and down and scattering dim reddish sparks. It was very damp—it had rained recently—and despite his waterproof coat, Redrick felt the wet chill.

He carefully let go of the branch, turned his head, and listened. To his right, not very far but not close, he heard a noise—there was someone else in the cemetery. Over there, the leaves were rustling, soil was trickling down, and then something hard and heavy hit the ground with a soft thud. Redrick carefully crawled backward without turning around, flattening himself against the wet grass. Once again, a beam of light glided over his head. Redrick froze, following it with his eyes; he thought that on a grave between the crosses he saw a motionless man in black. The man sat there without concealing himself, leaning against the marble obelisk, turning a white face with sunken black eyes toward Redrick. Actually, Redrick didn’t see him that clearly—he couldn’t have in that instant—but he could imagine how it must look. He crawled for another few feet, felt the flask under his jacket, took it out, and lay there for some time, pressing the warm metal to his cheek. Then, without letting go of the flask, he crawled on. He no longer listened or looked around.

There was a gap in the wall, and right next to it, on a spread-out lead-lined jacket, lay Burbridge. He was on his back, tugging at his collar with both hands, and was quietly, painfully groaning, the groans often turning into moans of agony. Redrick sat down next to him and unscrewed the flask. He carefully put his hand under Burbridge’s head, feeling the hot, sweaty bald pate with his entire palm, and put the mouth of the flask to the old man’s lips. It was dark, but in the dim reflected glow of the searchlights Redrick could see Burbridge’s wide-open, glassy eyes and the black stubble that covered his cheeks. Burbridge took a few greedy gulps and started fidgeting anxiously, groping the bag of swag.

“Came back…” he said. “Good man… Red… Won’t leave an old man… to die…”

Redrick tilted his head back and took a big gulp. “Not moving, the damn thing,” he said. “Like it’s glued to the road.”

“That’s… no accident…” said Burbridge. He was talking intermittently as he exhaled. “Someone squealed on us. They’re waiting.”

“Maybe,” said Redrick. “Want any more?”

“No. That’s enough. Don’t leave me. If you stay—I’ll make it. You won’t be sorry. You won’t leave, Red?”

Redrick didn’t answer. He was looking toward the road at the blue beams of the searchlights. From here, you could see the marble obelisk, but you couldn’t tell whether that one was still sitting there or had vanished.

“Listen, Red. I’m not kidding. You won’t be sorry. Do you know why old Burbridge is still alive? Do you? Bob the Gorilla is dead, the Pharaoh Banker is no more. He was a real stalker! But still, he croaked. And the Slug, too. Norman Four-Eyes. Kallogen. Scabby Pete. All of them. Only I’m left. Why? Do you know why?”

“You were always a piece of scum,” said Redrick, without taking his eyes off the road. “A vulture.”

“Scum. That’s right. You gotta be like that. But they were all the same. The Pharaoh. The Slug. But I’m the only one left. Do you know why?”

“Yes,” said Redrick, to shut him up.

“You’re lying. You don’t know. Have you heard of the Golden Sphere?”

“Yes.”

“You think it’s a fairy tale?”

“You should be quiet,” advised Redrick. “You’re wasting your strength!”

“It’s all right, you’ll get me out. We’ve done so much together! You wouldn’t actually leave me? You were this tall when we first met. Knew your father.”

Redrick stayed silent. He badly needed a smoke, so he took out a cigarette, crumbled some tobacco onto his palm, and tried smelling it. It didn’t help.

“You have to get me out,” said Burbridge. “It’s your fault I’m here. You wouldn’t take the Maltese.”

The Maltese really wanted to go with them. He paid for their drinks, offered a good deposit, and swore that he could get specsuits. Burbridge, who sat next to the Maltese, shielding his face with a heavy leathery hand, had winked furiously at Redrick: Take him, we won’t regret it. Maybe that was precisely why Redrick had said no. “Your own greed got you here,” Redrick said coldly. “Nothing to do with me. Just be quiet.”

For a while, Burbridge only groaned. He tugged on his collar again and threw his head all the way back. “You can keep everything,” he muttered. “Just don’t leave me.”

Redrick looked at his watch. It was now almost dawn, but the patrol car still wasn’t leaving; it continued to comb the bushes with its searchlights. Their camouflaged Jeep was hidden somewhere there, very near the patrols, and any moment now it might be discovered.

“The Golden Sphere,” said Burbridge. “I found it. Lots of stories told about it. Told some myself. That it’ll grant any wish. Yeah, right—any wish! If it granted any wish, I wouldn’t be here anymore. I’d be living it up in Europe. Swimming in cash.”

Redrick looked at him from above. In the flickering blue light, Burbridge’s upturned face looked dead. But his glassy eyes were wide open, and they followed Redrick intently, without looking away.

“Eternal youth—like hell I got that. Money—hell with that, too. But I have my health. And I got good kids. And I’m alive. You couldn’t even dream of the places I’ve been. And I’m still alive.” He licked his lips. “That’s all I’m asking it for. To let me live. And my health. And my kids.”

“Shut up,” Redrick finally said. “You sound like an old woman. If I can, I’ll drag you out. I feel sorry for your Dina—the girl will be out on the street.”

“Dina…” croaked Burbridge. “My baby. A beauty. You know, I’ve spoiled them, Red. Never denied them a thing. They’ll be lost. Arthur. My Archie. You know what he’s like, Red. Where else have you seen kids like that?”

“I told you. If I can, I’ll get you out.”

“No,” Burbridge said stubbornly. “You’ll get me out either way. The Golden Sphere. Want me to tell you where it is?”

“Fine, tell me.”

Burbridge moaned and shifted. “My legs…” he groaned. “Can you feel them?”

Redrick stretched out his arm and, examining, ran his hand along the leg below the knee.

“Bones…” wheezed Burbridge. “Are there still bones?”

“Yes, yes,” lied Redrick. “Don’t worry.”

Actually, he could only feel the kneecap. Below there, all the way down to the heel, the leg felt like a rubber stick—you could tie it in knots.

“You’re lying,” said Burbridge. “Why are you lying? What, you think I don’t know, you think I’ve never seen this before?”

“The knees are OK,” said Redrick.

“You’re probably lying again,” Burbridge said miserably. “Forget it. Just get me out of here. I’ll give you everything. The Golden Sphere. Draw you a map. Show you all the traps. Tell you everything.”

He kept talking and promising things, but Redrick was no longer listening. He was looking toward the road. The searchlights had stopped darting through the bushes; they had frozen, converging on that same marble obelisk, and in the bright blue fog Redrick distinctly saw a hunched figure wandering between the crosses. The figure seemed to be moving blindly, heading right toward the searchlights. Redrick saw it crash into a huge cross, stagger back, bump into the cross again, and only then go around it and keep going, stretching long arms with fingers spread wide in front of it. Then it suddenly disappeared, as if falling through the ground, and in a few seconds appeared again, farther and to the right, walking with an absurd, inhuman persistence, like a windup toy.

And the searchlights abruptly went off. The clutch started grinding, the motor roared to life, red and blue signal lights flashed through the bushes, and the patrol car took off. It sped up furiously, flew toward town, and disappeared behind the wall. Redrick swallowed hard and unzipped his jumpsuit.

“They left…” Burbridge muttered feverishly. “Let’s go, Red. Hurry up!” He fidgeted, groped around him, grabbed the bag of swag, and tried to sit up. “Come on, what are you waiting for?”

Redrick kept looking toward the road. It was now dark and he couldn’t see a thing, but that one was out there somewhere—marching like a windup toy, stumbling, falling, crashing into crosses, getting tangled in bushes. “All right,” Redrick said aloud. “Let’s go.”

He picked Burbridge up. The old man clutched his neck with a pincerlike grip, and Redrick, unable to get up, dragged him on all fours through the gap in the wall, gripping the wet grass with his hands. “Keep going, keep going…” Burbridge pleaded. “Don’t worry, I got the swag, I won’t let go. Keep going!”

He knew the way, but the wet grass was slippery, the branches whipped his face, and the corpulent old man was impossibly heavy, like a corpse; and then there was the bag of swag, which, knocking and clanging, kept getting caught, and he was terrified of stumbling on that one, who might be roaming here in the dark.

When they came out onto the road, it was still completely dark, but dawn was palpably near. In the grove across the highway, the birds were beginning to chirp sleepily; the night sky over the distant black houses and sparse yellow streetlights of the outskirts had already turned blue, and there was a damp chilly breeze. Redrick lay Burbridge down on the side of the road, glanced around, and, looking like a gigantic black spider, ran across it. He quickly found their Jeep, swept the masking branches off the hood and trunk, got behind the wheel, and carefully, without turning on the headlights, drove onto the pavement. Burbridge was sitting up, holding the bag with one hand, and with the other feeling his legs. “Hurry up!” he rasped. “Hurry up and go! My knees, I still have my knees… If I could save my knees!”

Redrick picked him up and, gritting his teeth from the effort, threw him into the car. Burbridge collapsed onto the backseat with a thud and moaned. He still hadn’t let go of the bag. Redrick picked the lead-lined jacket up off the ground and threw it over him. Burbridge had even managed to drag the jacket along.

Redrick took out a flashlight and went back and forth along the side of the road, looking for tracks. There were almost none. As it rolled onto the road, the Jeep had flattened the tall, thick grass, but in a couple of hours this grass would stand up. The area around the spot where the patrol car had been was littered with cigarette butts. Redrick remembered that he’d long wanted a smoke, took out a cigarette, and lit up, even though what he most wanted right now was to jump in the car and speed away. But he couldn’t do that yet. Everything had to be carefully thought through.

“What’s going on?” whined Burbridge from the car. “You haven’t poured out the water, the fishing gear is dry… Why are you standing there? Hide the swag!”

“Shut up!” said Redrick. “Get off my back.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “We’ll drive through the southern outskirts,” he said.

“The outskirts? Are you nuts? You’ll ruin my knees, asshole! My knees!”

Redrick took a last drag and stuffed the butt into a matchbox. “Calm down, Vulture,” he said. “We can’t go through town. There are three checkpoints on the way, we’ll get stopped at one of them, at least.”

“So what?”

“So they’ll take one look at your legs—and we’re finished.”

“What about my legs? We were fishing with dynamite, my legs got blasted, that’s all!”

“And if someone touches them?”

“Touches them… I’ll scream so loud, they’ll never touch a leg again.”

But Redrick had already decided. He turned on the flashlight, lifted the driver’s seat, opened the secret hatch, and said, “Give me the swag.”

The spare fuel tank under the seat was fake. Redrick took the bag and shoved it inside, listening to the clanging, rolling sounds coming from within.

“I can’t risk it,” he mumbled. “Got no right.”

He closed the hatch, sprinkled some garbage on top, threw some rags over it, and lowered the seat. Burbridge was grunting, moaning, plaintively demanding he hurry up; then he was again promising the Golden Sphere, the entire time fidgeting in his seat, staring anxiously into the lightening sky. Redrick paid no attention. He ripped open the plastic bag of water with the fish, poured out the water onto the fishing gear piled on the bottom of the trunk, and threw the wriggling fish into a canvas bag. After that, he folded the plastic bag and stuffed it into his pocket. Now everything was in order: two fishermen were returning from a moderately successful expedition. He got behind the wheel and started the car.

He drove all the way to the turn without switching on his headlights. To their left stretched the immense nine-foot wall that guarded the Zone, while to their right were bushes, thin groves, and the occasional abandoned cottage with boarded-up windows and peeling paint. Redrick had good night vision, and in any case, the darkness was no longer that thick; besides, he knew what was coming, so when the steadily walking, bent figure appeared ahead, he didn’t even slow down. He only hunched over the wheel. That one was marching right in the middle of the road—like the rest of them, he was walking to town. Redrick passed him, driving on the shoulder, and then pressed hard on the gas.

“My God!” mumbled Burbridge from the back. “Red, did you see that?”

“Yeah,” said Redrick.

“Jesus. That’s all we need…” Burbridge muttered, and then immediately began reciting a loud prayer.

“Shut up!” snapped Redrick.

The turn had to be here somewhere. Redrick slowed down, examining the row of lopsided houses and fences stretching to their right. An old transformer booth… an electric pole… a rotting bridge over a ditch. Redrick turned the wheel. The car bounced over a pothole.

“Where are you going?” Burbridge shrieked wildly. “You’ll ruin my legs, bastard!”

Redrick quickly turned around and slapped him, feeling the old man’s stubbly cheek with the back of his hand. Burbridge sputtered and shut up. The car bounced up and down, and the wheels constantly skidded in the fresh dirt left by the night’s rain. Redrick turned on the headlights. The dancing white light illuminated the old overgrown tire tracks, the giant puddles, and the rotting, slanted fences by the side. Burbridge was crying, sniffling and blowing his nose. He no longer promised things, he threatened and complained, but very quietly and indistinctly, so Redrick could only make out single words. Something about legs, about knees, about beautiful Archie… Then he quieted down.

The village stretched beside the western border of town. Once upon a time, there were cottages here, gardens, fruit orchards, and the summer residences of city officials and factory administrators. There were lovely green spaces, small lakes with clean sandy banks, transparent birch groves, and ponds stocked with carp. The factory stench and acrid factory smoke never reached here, although neither did the city sewer system. Now, everything was deserted and abandoned, and throughout the drive they only saw one occupied house—the curtained window was yellow with light, rain-soaked laundry hung on the line, and a giant dog had rushed out of the yard, barking furiously, and chased the car in the clouds of dirt thrown up by the wheels.

Redrick carefully drove over another old crooked bridge, and, when the turn to the western highway appeared ahead, stopped the car and turned off the engine. He climbed out onto the road, without looking at Burbridge, and walked forward, shivering and stuffing his hands into his damp jumpsuit pockets. It was now light out. The world was wet, quiet, and sleepy. He reached the highway and cautiously looked out from behind the bushes. From here, it was easy to see the police outpost: a little trailer on wheels, three windows shining with light, and smoke rising from the tall narrow chimney. A patrol car was parked nearby, with no one inside. For some time Redrick stood there and watched. The outpost was completely still; the patrols were probably cold and weary from the night’s vigil and were now warming up in their trailer—nodding off, with cigarettes stuck to their lower lips.

“Toads,” Redrick said quietly.

He felt the brass knuckles in his pocket, put his fingers through the rings, gripped the cold metal in his fist, and walked back, still shivering and keeping his hands in his pockets. The Jeep was standing between the bushes, tilting slightly. They were in a remote, deserted place; it had probably been a decade since anyone had been there.

When Redrick approached the car, Burbridge sat up and looked at him, mouth agape. Right now, he seemed even older than usual—wrinkled, bald, covered in dirty stubble, rotten toothed. For some time they silently looked at each other, and suddenly Burbridge mumbled, “Give you a map… all the traps, all of them… Find it yourself, won’t be sorry…”

Redrick listened to him, motionless, then he unclenched his fingers, let go of the brass knuckles in his pocket, and said, “Fine. You gotta be unconscious, OK? Moan and don’t let them touch you.”

He got into the car, started the engine, and drove forward.

And everything turned out OK. No one left the trailer when the Jeep, in strict accordance with the road signs and instructions, slowly rolled by and then, quickly picking up speed, flew toward town through the southern outskirts. It was 6 AM, the streets were empty, the pavement was wet and black, and the traffic lights at the intersections kept a lonely and pointless vigil. They passed a bakery with tall, brightly lit windows, and Redrick let the warm, incredibly delicious aroma wash over him.

“I’m starving,” said Redrick and, kneading his muscles, which were stiff from the tension, stretched, pushing his hands into the wheel.

“What?” said Burbridge in alarm.

“I said I’m starving. Where are we going? Your house or straight to the Butcher?”

“To the Butcher, to the Butcher, quick!” Burbridge babbled impatiently, his whole body leaning forward, his hot, feverish breath on Redrick’s neck. “Go straight there! Right now! He still owes me seven hundred. Go, go, quickly, why are you crawling like an injured snail?” And then he suddenly began to curse, impotently and spitefully, using vile, dirty words, showering Redrick with spittle, gasping and coughing in fits.

Redrick didn’t answer. He didn’t have the time or the energy to soothe the raging Vulture. He had to quickly finish with all this and catch at least an hour, a half hour, of sleep before the meeting at the Metropole. He turned onto Sixteenth Street, drove two blocks, and parked the car in front of the gray two-story house.

The Butcher opened the door himself—he probably had just gotten up and was going to the bathroom. He was wearing a splendid robe with gold tassels and holding a glass with dentures in his hand. His hair was tousled and there were dark circles under his dull eyes.

“Oh!” he said, “Red, it’sh you? What ish it?”

“Put in your teeth and let’s go,” said Redrick.

“Uh-huh,” replied the Butcher, nodding invitingly toward the foyer, and then, shuffling his feet in Persian slippers and moving with surprising speed, he headed to the bathroom. “Who?” he asked from within.

“Burbridge,” answered Redrick.

“What?”

“Legs.”

In the bathroom, water started running, he heard snorting and splashing, and then something fell and rolled along the tiled floor. Redrick wearily sat down in an armchair, took out a cigarette, and, looking around, lit up. Yeah, this was quite the foyer. The Butcher must have spent a bundle. He was a very skilled and very fashionable surgeon, renowned in the medical community not only of the city but of the state, and, of course, the reason he got mixed up with stalkers wasn’t the money. Like many others, he profited from the Zone: by receiving swag and then applying it in his practice; by treating crippled stalkers, in the process investigating mysterious new injuries, diseases, and deformities of the human body; and by becoming famous as the first doctor on the planet to specialize in nonhuman illnesses of man. Although, to be honest, he also eagerly took the money.

“What exactly is wrong with his legs?” he asked, emerging from the bathroom with a huge towel draped over his shoulder. He was carefully wiping his long nervous fingers with a corner of the towel.

“Got into the slime,” said Redrick.

The Butcher whistled. “So, that’s the end of Burbridge,” he muttered. “Too bad, he was a famous stalker.”

“Nah,” said Redrick, leaning back in his chair. “You’ll make prostheses for him. He’ll hop through the Zone on prostheses yet.”

“Well, OK,” said the Butcher. His face became completely professional. “Give me a second, I’ll get dressed.”

While he got dressed and talked on the phone, probably instructing his clinic to prepare for the surgery, Redrick lounged motionless in the armchair and smoked. He only moved once, to take out his flask. He drank in small sips, since the flask was almost empty, and tried not to think about anything. He simply waited.

Then they both walked to the car, Redrick got behind the wheel, and the Butcher sat down next to him, immediately leaning over the seat and feeling Burbridge’s legs. Burbridge, hushed and deflated, mumbled something plaintive, promised untold riches, constantly mentioned his children and dead wife, and begged him to at least save his knees. When they drove up to the clinic, the Butcher cursed at not finding the orderlies outside, jumped out of the still-moving car, and disappeared behind the door. Redrick lit another cigarette, and Burbridge suddenly spoke, clearly and distinctly, as if he was completely calm: “You wanted to kill me. I’ll remember that.”

“But I didn’t,” said Redrick indifferently.

“No, you didn’t.” Burbridge was quiet. “I’ll remember that, too.”

“You do that,” said Redrick. “You, of course, wouldn’t have killed me…”

He turned around and looked at Burbridge. The old man was grimacing uncertainly, twisting his parched lips.

“You would have just abandoned me,” said Redrick. “Left me in the Zone, and that would be that. Like Four-Eyes.”

“Four-Eyes died on his own,” Burbridge sullenly disagreed. “I had nothing to do with it. He got stuck.”

“You’re scum,” said Redrick dispassionately, turning away. “A vulture.”

Two disheveled, sleepy orderlies jumped out of the door and, unfolding the stretcher as they ran, rushed up to the car. Redrick, taking occasional drags of his cigarette, watched as they dexterously pulled Burbridge from the backseat, laid him down on the stretcher, and carried him to the door. Burbridge was lying motionless, crossing his arms on his chest and staring remotely into the sky. His huge feet, cruelly damaged by the slime, were strangely and unnaturally bent.

He was the last of the old stalkers, the ones that began the search for alien treasures immediately after the Visit, when the Zone wasn’t yet called the Zone, and there was no Institute, no wall, and no UN police force; when the town was paralyzed by terror, and the world giggled over the latest newspaper hoax. At the time, Redrick was ten years old, and Burbridge was still a strong and agile man—he loved drinking on someone else’s dime, brawling, and chasing girls. Back then, he had absolutely no interest in his children, but he was already a piece of scum: when drunk, he got some vile pleasure out of beating his wife, loudly, so everyone could hear… Eventually, he beat her to death.

Redrick turned the Jeep around and, paying no attention to the traffic lights, cutting corners and honking at the rare pedestrians, sped straight home.

He stopped in front of the garage and, getting out of the car, saw the superintendent walking toward him from the park. As usual, the superintendent was in a foul mood, and his flabby, puffy-eyed face expressed extreme distaste, as if he weren’t walking on solid earth but wading through a field of manure.

“Good morning,” said Redrick politely.

The superintendent stopped two steps away and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Did you do that?” he asked indistinctly. It was clear these were his first words of the day.

“Do what?”

“That swing. Did you put it up?”

“I did.”

“What for?”

Redrick didn’t answer, went up to the gates of the garage, and unlocked them. The superintendent followed and stopped right behind him.

“I’m asking you, why did you put up the swing? Who asked you to do that?”

“My daughter asked,” said Redrick very calmly. He rolled the gates open.

“I’m not talking about your daughter!” The superintendent raised his voice. “Your daughter is a separate topic. I’m asking, who gave you permission? Who, exactly, said you could rearrange the park?”

Redrick turned toward him and for a while stood motionless, gazing fixedly at the man’s pale, veined nose. The superintendent took a step back and said in a lower tone, “And you don’t repaint the balcony. How many times do I have to—”

“Don’t waste your breath,” said Redrick. “I’m not going to leave.”

He went back to the car and turned on the engine. As he put his hands on the steering wheel, he noticed that his knuckles had turned white. Then he leaned out of the car and, no longer controlling himself, said, “But if you do make me leave, asshole, you better say a prayer.”

He drove the car into the garage, turned on the light, and closed the gates. He pulled the bag of swag out of the false gas tank, cleaned up the car, stuffed the bag into an old wicker basket, and put the fishing gear—still damp and covered in leaves—on top; finally, he dumped in the fish, which Burbridge had bought in the outskirts last night. Then he again examined the car from every side, just out of habit. He found a flattened cigarette stuck to the rear right tire. Redrick peeled it off—the cigarette was Swedish. Redrick thought about it, then stuffed it into a matchbox. The box already contained three butts.

He didn’t meet anyone on the stairs. He stopped in front of his door, and it opened before he could take out his key. He walked in sideways, with the heavy basket under his arm, and soaked in the familiar warmth, the familiar smells of his home; Guta hugged him around the neck and stayed still, her face pressed into his chest. Even through the thick layers of his clothing, he felt the frantic beating of her heart. He didn’t get in her way—he stood there patiently and waited until she came around, although that was precisely the moment he realized how exhausted and drained he was.

“All right,” she said eventually in a low husky voice. She let go of him, turned on the light in the corridor, and, without turning around, went to the kitchen. “I’ll make you coffee,” she called out.

“I brought you some fish,” he said in a deliberately cheerful voice. “Fry them up, every one, I’m dying of hunger!”

She returned, hiding her face in her hair; he put the basket on the floor and helped her take out the bag of fish, then they carried the bag together into the kitchen and dumped the fish into the sink. “Go wash up,” she said. “By the time you’re done, the food will be ready.”

“How’s the Monkey?” said Redrick, sitting down and pulling off his boots.

“Oh, she chattered all evening,” replied Guta. “Barely managed to put her to bed. Wouldn’t leave me alone: ‘Where’s Daddy, where’s Daddy?’ Give her Daddy right then and there…”

She moved silently and gracefully through the kitchen—so capable and lovely—and water was already boiling on the stove, and fish scales were flying from under the knife, and oil sputtered in their biggest frying pan, and the incredible smell of fresh coffee spread through the air.

Redrick got up and, walking barefoot, came back to the front door, picked up the basket, and carried it to the den. On the way, he glanced into the bedroom. The Monkey was dozing peacefully: her blanket hung to the floor, her nightie was riding up, and he could see her whole body—she was a small sleeping animal. Redrick couldn’t resist it and stroked her back, covered in warm golden fur, and for the hundredth time marveled at how silky and long it was. He really wanted to pick her up, but he was worried he’d wake her, and besides, he was dirty as hell, drenched in the Zone and death. He came back to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and said, “Pour me a cup of coffee? I’ll shower in a bit.”

There was a stack of evening mail on the table: the Harmont Times, an Athlete, a Playboy—a whole bunch of magazines had arrived—and there were also the thick, gray-covered Reports of the International Institute of Extraterrestrial Cultures. Redrick took a steaming mug of coffee from Guta and pulled the Reports toward him. Squiggles, weird symbols, diagrams… The photos depicted familiar objects from strange angles. Another one of Kirill’s posthumous papers had been published: “A Surprising Property of Magnetic Traps of Type 77b.” The name “Panov” was framed in black, and there was a note in small print: “Dr. Kirill A. Panov, USSR, tragically perished while conducting an experiment in April of 19—” Redrick tossed the magazine away, gulped down some burning hot coffee, and asked, “Did anyone come by?”

“Gutalin dropped by,” said Guta after a slight pause. She was standing next to the stove and looking at him. “He was totally drunk, I threw him out.”

“How did the Monkey take it?”

“Didn’t want him to go, of course. Almost started bawling. But I told her that Uncle Gutalin wasn’t feeling well. And she replied understandingly, ‘Uncle Gutalin is sloshed again.’”

Redrick chuckled and took another sip. Then he asked, “How about the neighbors?”

And again Guta hesitated a bit before answering. “Same as usual,” she said eventually.

“Fine, don’t tell me.”

“Oh!” she said, waving her hand in disgust. “That hag from downstairs knocked during the night. Eyes bulging, foaming at the mouth. Why the hell are we sawing in the bathroom at night?”

“Bitch,” said Redrick through his teeth. “Listen, maybe we really should move? Buy a house in the outskirts, where no one lives, get some abandoned cottage…”

“What about the Monkey?”

“My God,” said Redrick. “Don’t you think the two of us could figure out how to make her happy?”

Guta shook her head. “She loves children. And they love her. It’s not their fault, that—”

“Yes,” said Redrick. “It’s definitely not their fault.”

“No use talking about it,” said Guta. “Oh, someone called for you. Didn’t leave a name. I said you were out fishing.”

Redrick put the cup down and stood up. “All right,” he said. “I really should go shower. I still have a lot to do.”

He locked the bathroom, threw his clothes into a tub, and put the brass knuckles, remaining screws, and other odds and ends on a shelf. He spent a long time under the hot, almost-boiling water, groaning and scrubbing his body with a coarse sponge until his skin turned red; then he turned off the shower, sat on the side of the tub, and lit a cigarette. Water was gurgling through the pipes, Guta was clinking dishes in the kitchen; he smelled fried fish, then Guta knocked on the door and handed him clean underwear. “Hurry up,” she commanded. “The fish is getting cold.”

She had completely recovered and was issuing orders again. Chuckling, Redrick got dressed; that is, he pulled on boxers and a T-shirt and, wearing this outfit, came back to the kitchen. “Now I can have some food,” he said, sitting down.

“Did you put the clothes in the tub?” asked Guta.

“Uh-huh,” he said with his mouth full. “Great fish!”

“Did you pour water over them?”

“No… My fault, sir, won’t happen again, sir. Come on, do that later, have a seat!”

He caught her hand and tried to put her on his knees, but she slipped away and sat across from him.

“Neglecting your husband, huh?” said Redrick, filling his mouth again. “Giving him the cold shoulder.”

“Some husband you are right now,” said Guta. “An empty sack instead of a husband. First, you have to be stuffed.”

“Hey, anything’s possible!” said Redrick. “Don’t you believe in miracles?”

“That would be quite the miracle. Want a drink?”

Redrick played indecisively with his fork. “N-no, probably not,” he said. He looked at his watch and got up. “I should go now. Could you prepare a suit for me? Make it first rate, with a dress shirt and tie.”

Enjoying the sensation of the cool floor on his bare feet, he walked to the den and barred the door. He put on a rubber apron, pulled on elbow-high rubber gloves, and started unloading the items in the bag onto the table. Two empties. A box of pins. Nine batteries. Three bracelets. And another hoop—resembling a bracelet but made from a white metal, lighter and about an inch larger in diameter. Sixteen black sparks in a plastic bag. Two perfectly preserved sponges close to a fist in size. Three shriekers. A jar of carbonated clay. There was still a heavy porcelain container, packed carefully in fiberglass, remaining in the bag, but Redrick left it alone. He took out his cigarettes and lit up, looking over the swag laid out on the table.

Then he pulled out a drawer and took out a piece of paper, a pencil stub, and his balance sheet. Holding the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and squinting from the smoke, he wrote down number after number, lining them up in three columns, and adding the first two. The sums turned out to be impressive. He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, carefully opened the box, and poured the pins out onto the paper. In the electric light the pins looked shot with blue and would on rare occasion burst into pure spectral colors—red, yellow, green. He picked up one pin and, being careful not to prick himself, squeezed it between his finger and thumb. He turned off the light and waited a little, getting used to the dark. But the pin was silent. He put it aside, groped for another one, and also squeezed it between his fingers. Nothing. He squeezed harder, risking a prick, and the pin starting talking: weak reddish sparks ran along it and changed all at once to rarer green ones. For a couple of seconds Redrick admired this strange light show, which, as he learned from the Reports, had to mean something, possibly something very significant, then he put the pin down separately from the first one and picked up a new one.

Overall, there were seventy-three pins, out of which twelve talked and the rest were silent. Actually, these would also talk, but fingers weren’t enough; you needed a special machine the size of a table. Redrick turned on the light and added two numbers to those already on the page. And only after this did he make up his mind.

He shoved both hands into the bag and, holding his breath, took out the package and put it on the table. He stared at it for some time, pensively scratching his chin with the back of his hand. Then he finally picked up a pencil, spun it in his clumsy rubber fingers, and threw it down again. He took out another cigarette and, without lifting his eyes from the package, smoked it whole.

“To hell with this!” he said loudly, resolutely picked up the package, and stuffed it back into the bag. “That’s it. That’s enough.”

He quickly poured the pins back into the box and rose from the table. It was time to go. He could probably nap for half an hour to clear his head, but on the other hand, it might be smarter to arrive early and get a sense of things. He took off his gloves, hung up the apron, and, without turning off the light, left the den.

The suit was already laid out on the bed, and Redrick began to dress. He was tying his tie in front of a mirror, when the floorboards squeaked softly behind him, he heard agitated breathing, and he had to make a serious face to avoid laughing.

“Boo!” a high voice suddenly yelled beside him, and he felt someone grab his leg.

“Aah!” exclaimed Redrick, collapsing on the bed.

The Monkey, squealing and shouting with laughter, immediately climbed on top of him. She stepped on him, pulled his hair, and showered him with important information. The neighbor kid Willy tore dolly’s leg off. There was a new kitten on the third floor, all white and with red eyes—he probably didn’t listen to his mommy and went in the Zone. There was oatmeal and jam for supper. Uncle Gutalin was sloshed again and felt sick, he even cried. Why don’t fish drown, if they’re in water? Why wasn’t Mommy sleeping at night? Why do we have five fingers, but only two arms, and one nose? Redrick carefully hugged the warm creature crawling all over him, looked into the huge, entirely black eyes with no whites, pressed his face to the chubby little cheek covered in silky golden fur, and repeated, “My Monkey… Oh, you Monkey… What a little Monkey…”

The phone rang sharply in his ear. He stretched out a hand and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

There was no response.

“Hello?” said Redrick. “Hello?”

No one answered. Then there was a click, and he heard a series of short beeps. After this, Redrick stood up, put the Monkey down on the floor, and, no longer listening to her, put on his jacket and pants. The Monkey chattered without pause, but he only smiled absentmindedly, and so it was eventually announced that Daddy must have bitten then swallowed his tongue, and he was left alone.

He came back to the den, put the items on the table into his briefcase, stopped by the bathroom to get the brass knuckles, again returned to the den, took the briefcase in one hand and the wicker basket in the other, and went out, carefully locking the den door and shouting to Guta, “I’m leaving!”

“When are you coming back?” said Guta, coming in from the kitchen. She had already brushed her hair and put makeup on, and she was no longer wearing a bathrobe but had changed into a dress—his favorite one, bright blue and low cut.

“I’ll call you,” he said, looking at her, then came up to her, bent down, and kissed her cleavage.

“Well, go on…” said Guta quietly.

“And me? What about me?” hollered the Monkey, climbing between them. He had to bend down even farther. Guta was looking at him with frozen eyes.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll call you.”

In the stairwell on the floor below, Redrick met a heavy man in striped pajamas who stood in front of his door, fiddling with his lock. From the dark recesses of his apartment wafted a warm smell of sour cooking. Redrick stopped and said, “Good morning.”

The heavy man looked warily at him over his huge shoulder and mumbled something.

“Your wife came by last night,” said Redrick. “Thought we were sawing something. There must have been a mistake.”

“What’s it to me?” grumbled the man in pajamas.

“My wife was doing the laundry last night,” continued Redrick. “If we bothered you, I apologize.”

“I didn’t say anything,” said the man in pajamas. “Feel free.”

“Well, I’m very glad,” said Redrick.

He went downstairs, stopped by the garage, put the basket down in the corner, covered it with an old seat cushion, took one last look, and came out onto the street.

It wasn’t a long walk—two blocks to the square, a bit through the park, and another block until Central Avenue. As usual, the street in front of the Metropole gleamed with the chrome and lacquer of a colorful collection of cars, doormen in raspberry uniforms lugged suitcases toward the entrance, and some respectable foreign-looking men congregated in groups of two or three on the marble staircase, chatting and smoking cigars. Redrick decided not to go there yet. He settled under the awning of a small café across the street, ordered coffee, and lit up. At a table two steps away, he saw three undercover members of the international police force, sitting silently, hastily stuffing themselves with fried sausages à la Harmont, and drinking dark beer from tall glass steins. On his other side, about ten steps away, some sergeant was gloomily scarfing down fried potatoes, holding his fork in his fist. His blue helmet was upside down on the floor beside him, and his holster was hanging on the back of his chair. No one else was in the café. The waitress, an unfamiliar middle-aged woman, stood off to the side and yawned occasionally, tactfully covering her painted mouth with her hand. It was twenty minutes to nine.

Redrick watched as Richard Noonan came out of the hotel, munching on something and pulling a soft hat over his ears. He briskly marched down the stairs—small, fat, and pink, the picture of prosperity and good health, freshly washed and cheerful, completely convinced that the day would be a good one. He waved to someone, threw his rolled-up jacket over his right shoulder, and walked to his Peugeot. Dick’s Peugeot was itself round, short, and freshly washed and somehow also gave the impression of total optimism.

Hiding his face behind his hand, Redrick watched Noonan fussily and industriously settle in behind the wheel, moving an item from the front seat to the back, bending down to pick up something, and adjusting the rearview mirror. The Peugeot coughed out a puff of bluish smoke, beeped at some African in a burnoose, and briskly rolled onto the street. From the looks of things, Noonan was heading to the Institute and therefore would go around the fountain and drive past the café. It was now too late to get up and go, so Redrick just covered his whole face with his hand and hunched over his cup. Unfortunately, this didn’t help. The Peugeot beeped right in his ear, the brakes squealed, and Noonan’s cheerful voice called out, “Hey! Schuhart! Red!”

Cursing under his breath, Redrick lifted his head. Noonan was already walking toward him, stretching out his hand. He was beaming.

“What are you doing here this early?” he asked when he came closer. “Thanks, dear,” he called to the waitress, “I don’t need anything.” And then, again addressing Redrick, “Haven’t seen you in ages. Where have you been hiding? What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Not much…” said Redrick without enthusiasm. “This and that.”

He watched as Noonan, fussy and meticulous as always, settled on the chair across from him, his plump little hands pushing the napkin holder to one side and the sandwich plate to the other; and he listened as he chattered amicably. “You look kind of beat—not getting enough sleep? You know, I’ve been run off my feet myself with the new machinery, but sleep—no, my friend, sleep’s the first thing, screw the machinery…” He suddenly looked around. “Pardon me, maybe you’re waiting for someone? Am I bothering you?”

“No, no…” said Redrick listlessly. “I just had a bit of time, thought I’d at least have a cup of coffee.”

“All right, I won’t keep you long,” Dick said and looked at his watch. “Listen, Red, why don’t you drop your this and your that and come back to the Institute? You know they’d take you back in a second. They just got a new Russian, want to work with him?”

Redrick shook his head. “No,” he said, “the next Kirill hasn’t been born yet. Besides, there’s nothing for me to do at your Institute. It’s all automated now, the robots go into the Zone, the robots, I suppose, also get the bonuses. And lab assistant salary—that won’t even cover my tobacco…”

Noonan disagreed. “Come on, that could all be sorted out.”

“And I don’t like it when other people sort things out for me,” said Redrick. “I’ve been sorting things out myself my whole life and plan to continue that way.”

“You’ve gotten proud,” Noonan said reproachfully.

“I’m not proud. I just don’t like counting pennies, that’s all.”

“Well, you’ve got a point,” said Noonan absentmindedly. He glanced casually at Redrick’s briefcase sitting on the nearby chair and rubbed his finger over the silver plating with the Cyrillic engraving. “That’s exactly right. A man needs money in order to never think about it… A present from Kirill?” he asked, nodding at the briefcase.

“My inheritance,” said Redrick. “Why haven’t I seen you at the Borscht lately?”

“More like I haven’t seen you,” said Noonan. “I almost always eat dinner there; here at the Metropole everything costs an arm and a leg… Listen,” he said suddenly, “how are you doing for money?”

“Want to borrow some?” asked Redrick.

“On the contrary.”

“Then you want to lend some.”

“There’s work,” said Noonan.

“Oh God!” said Redrick. “Not you, too!”

“Who else?” Noonan asked immediately.

“Oh, there are a lot of you… employers.”

Noonan, as if he just understood, started laughing. “No, no, this isn’t related to your primary career.”

“Then what?”

Noonan checked his watch again. “Listen,” he said, getting up. “Drop by the Borscht today at lunchtime, around one. We’ll talk.”

“I might not make it by one,” said Redrick.

“Then in the evening, around six. All right?”

“We’ll see,” said Redrick and also checked his watch. It was five to nine.

Noonan waved and toddled off to his Peugeot. Redrick watched him leave, called the waitress, asked for a pack of Lucky Strikes, paid the bill, and, picking up his briefcase, walked leisurely across the street to the hotel. The sun was already hot, the street was rapidly becoming muggy, and Redrick’s eyes were starting to sting. He squeezed them shut, regretting that he didn’t have the chance to nap before this important deal. And then it happened.

He had never felt this outside of the Zone, and even in the Zone it had only happened two or three times. Suddenly, he seemed to be in another world. A million smells assaulted him at once—smells that were sharp, sweet, metallic; dangerous, caressing, disturbing; as immense as houses, as tiny as dust particles, as rough as cobblestones, and as delicate and intricate as watch gears. The air turned hard, it appeared to have surfaces, corners, edges, as if space had been filled with huge coarse spheres, polished pyramids, and gigantic prickly crystals, and he was forced to make his way through all this, as if in a dream, pushing through a dark antique shop full of ancient misshapen furniture… This only lasted a moment. He opened his eyes, and everything disappeared. This wasn’t another world—it was his same old world turning an unfamiliar side toward him, revealing it for an instant, then immediately sealing it off, before he even had the chance to investigate.

An irritated horn blared in his ear; Redrick sped up, then broke into a run, only stopping next to the hotel wall. His heart was racing, so he put down his briefcase, impatiently tore open a pack of cigarettes, and lit up. He was inhaling deeply, resting, as if after a fight, and the policeman on beat walked up and asked anxiously, “Mister, would you like some help?”

“N-no,” Redrick forced out the word, then coughed. “It’s a bit stuffy…”

“Would you like me to walk with you?”

Redrick bent down and picked up his briefcase. “I’m fine now,” he said. “Nothing to worry about, buddy. Thank you.”

He quickly walked toward the door, went up the stairs, and came into the lobby. It was cool, dim, and full of echoes. He would have liked to sit in one of the gigantic leather armchairs, come to his senses, and catch his breath, but he was already late. He only let himself finish his cigarette, watching the people around him through half-closed eyes. Bony was already here, looking irritated and rifling through the magazines at the newsstand. Redrick threw the cigarette butt into a trash can and got into the elevator.

He didn’t close the door in time, and a few people squeezed in next to him: a fat man breathing asthmatically, an overperfumed woman with a sullen boy munching a chocolate bar, and a heavy old lady with a badly shaved chin. Redrick was squished into a corner. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the boy, whose mouth was dripping with chocolate saliva but whose face was fresh, pure, without a single hair; so he wouldn’t have to see his mother, whose meager bust was adorned with a necklace of black sparks, set in silver; and so he wouldn’t have to see the bulging sclerotic eyes of the fat man and the repulsive warts on the old woman’s bloated mug. The fat man tried to light a cigarette, but the old lady tore into him and continued berating him until the fifth floor, where she got off; and as soon as she got off, the fat man finally lit up, looking like a man who had defended his rights, and then immediately began to cough, wheezing and gasping, extending his lips like a camel, and jabbing Redrick in the ribs with his elbow.

On the eighth floor Redrick got off and, in order to let off some steam, loudly and emphatically declared, “Screw you, you old unshaven hag, and same to you, coughing cretin, and you, you reeking broad with your snotty, chocolate-covered punk, go to hell!”

Then he walked on the plush carpet along the hallway, which was bathed in the cozy light of hidden lamps. Here, it smelled like fancy tobacco, Parisian perfumes, gleaming leather wallets overstuffed with banknotes, expensive call girls worth five hundred a night, and massive gold cigar cases. It stank of vulgarity, of the foul scum that had grown on the Zone, gotten rich by the Zone, fed, drank, and fattened from the Zone, and didn’t give a damn—and especially didn’t give a damn about what would happen when it gorged itself to its heart’s content, and all that used to be in the Zone settled in the outside world. Redrick quietly pushed open the door of suite 874.

Raspy was sitting on a chair by the window and making a cigar. He was still wearing pajamas, and his thinning hair was damp—but it was already carefully combed over, and his sallow, puffy face was clean shaven. “Aha,” he said, “punctuality is the courtesy of kings. Hello, my boy!”

He finished snipping the end of the cigar, picked it up with both hands, brought it to his nose, and sniffed it from end to end.

“And where is our old friend Burbridge?” he asked, and lifted his eyes. His eyes were clear, blue, and angelic.

Redrick put his briefcase on the couch, sat down, and took out his cigarettes. “Burbridge isn’t coming,” he said.

“Good old Burbridge,” said Raspy, holding the cigar with two fingers and carefully bringing it to his mouth. “Good old Burbridge had a case of nerves…” He continued to stare at Redrick with his innocent blue eyes and didn’t blink. He never blinked.

The door opened slightly, and Bony squeezed into the room. “Who was that man you were talking to?” he asked straight from the doorway.

“Oh, hello,” said Redrick amiably, flicking his cigarette ashes onto the floor.

Bony stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked toward him, taking long strides with his giant, pigeon-toed feet, and stopped in front of Redrick. “We’ve told you a hundred times,” he said reproachfully. “No get-togethers before the meeting. And what do you do?”

“Me—I greet you,” said Redrick. “And you?”

Raspy laughed, and Bony said irritably, “Hello, hello.” He stopped glaring at Redrick reproachfully and collapsed on the couch next to him. “You can’t do that,” he said. “Got it? You can’t!”

“Then name a meeting place where I don’t have any friends,” said Redrick.

“The boy is right,” noted Raspy. “Our mistake. So who was that man?”

“That was Richard Noonan,” said Redrick. “He represents some firms that supply equipment to the Institute. He lives here, in the hotel.”

“You see how simple it is!” said Raspy to Bony, picking up an enormous lighter, shaped like the Statue of Liberty, from the table. He looked at it doubtfully, then put it back.

“And where’s Burbridge?” said Bony, sounding completely mollified.

“Burbridge is out,” said Redrick.

The other two quickly exchanged glances. “May he rest in peace,” said Raspy warily. “Or maybe he got arrested?”

For some time, Redrick didn’t reply, leisurely puffing on his cigarette. Then he threw the butt on the floor and said, “Don’t worry, everything’s fine. He’s in the hospital.”

“That’s what you call ‘fine’?” Bony said nervously, jumping up and walking to the window. “In which hospital?”

“Don’t worry,” repeated Redrick. “In the right hospital. Let’s get down to business, I need to sleep.”

“In which hospital, exactly?” asked Bony, already sounding irritated.

“I just told you,” answered Redrick. He picked up his briefcase. “Are we going to do business or not?”

“We are, we are, my boy,” Raspy said cheerfully. Showing unexpected agility, he jumped to his feet, briskly pushed a coffee table toward Redrick, and in a single motion swept the pile of newspapers and magazines onto the carpet. He sat down across from Redrick, putting his hairy pink hands on his knees. “Show us,” he said.

Redrick opened the briefcase, took out the list of prices, and laid it on the table in front of Raspy. Raspy looked at it and pushed it away with one finger. Bony, standing behind his back, stared at the list over his shoulder.

“That’s the bill,” said Redrick.

“I see that,” replied Raspy. “Show us, show us!”

“The money?” said Redrick.

“What is this ‘ring’?” Bony demanded suspiciously, jabbing his finger at the list over Raspy’s shoulder.

Redrick was silent. He held the open briefcase on his knees and kept staring into the angelic blue eyes. Finally, Raspy chuckled.

“Why do I love you so much, my boy?” he cooed. “And they say there’s no love at first sight!” He sighed theatrically. “Phil, buddy, how do they say it around here? Pay the man, give him some moola… and pass me a match, already! As you can see…” And he shook the cigar still gripped between his fingers.

Bony grumbled something unintelligible, threw him a matchbox, and went into the neighboring room through a curtain-covered doorway. Redrick heard him speaking, irritably and indistinctly, saying something about a pig in a poke. Meanwhile, Raspy, having finally lit his cigar, kept examining Redrick with a fixed smile on his pale, thin lips and seemed to be considering something—so Redrick put his chin on his briefcase and stared back, also trying not to blink, although his eyes were burning and he was tearing up. Then Bony returned, threw two bundles of cash down on the table, and, looking sullen, sat next to Redrick. Redrick lazily reached for the money, but Raspy gestured him to stop, unwrapped the cash, and stuffed the wrappers into his pocket.

“Now you’re welcome to it,” he said.

Redrick took the money and, without counting, shoved it into an inner pocket of his jacket. After that, he spread out the swag. He did this slowly, giving them both a chance to examine each item and check it against the list. The room was silent, except for Raspy’s laborious breathing and a barely audible clinking coming from behind the curtain—probably a spoon tapping a glass.

When Redrick finally closed and locked his briefcase, Raspy looked up at him and asked, “All right, and our main object?”

“Nothing,” answered Redrick. He paused and added, “Yet.”

“I like that ‘yet,’” said Raspy affectionately. “And you, Phil?”

“You’re muddling things, Schuhart,” said Bony with distaste. “Why the secrecy, I ask?”

“This business is full of secrets,” said Redrick. “It’s a difficult business.”

“Well, all right,” said Raspy. “And where’s the camera?”

“Oh, shit!” Redrick rubbed his cheek with his hand, feeling his face turn red. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I totally forgot.”

“Over there?” asked Raspy, gesturing vaguely with his cigar.

“I’m not sure… Probably over there…” Redrick closed his eyes and leaned back on the couch. “No. I really can’t remember.”

“Too bad,” said Raspy, “But did you at least see it?”

“No, we didn’t,” said Redrick with vexation. “That’s the thing. We didn’t even make it to the furnaces. Burbridge got into the slime, and we turned right back. You can be sure that if I saw it, I wouldn’t have forgotten.”

“My God, Hugh, take a look!” Bony suddenly said in a frightened whisper. “What the hell is this?”

He was sitting with his right index finger extended tensely in front of him. Spinning around his finger was that same white metal bracelet, and Bony was staring at it wild-eyed.

“It won’t stop!” Bony said loudly, moving his astonished eyes from the bracelet to Raspy and back again.

“What do you mean, ‘won’t stop’?” Raspy said cautiously, and drew back slightly.

“I put it on my finger and spun it once, just for fun. And it’s now been spinning a whole minute!”

Bony bolted up and, holding his extended finger before him, ran through the curtained doorway. The bracelet, shimmering with silver, continued to rotate steadily in front of him, like an airplane propeller.

“What’s this you brought us?” asked Raspy.

“Hell if I know!” said Redrick. “I had no idea. If I did, I would have charged more.”

Raspy looked at him for some time, then got up and also disappeared through the doorway. Redrick immediately heard the murmur of voices. He took out a cigarette, lit up, picked up a magazine from the floor, and absentmindedly flipped through it. The magazine was full of tight-bodied beauties, but for some reason looking at them right now nauseated him. Redrick flung the magazine down and scanned the suite, searching for a drink. Then he pulled the money out of his pocket and counted the bills. Everything was fine, but in order to stay awake, he also counted the second pack. As he was putting it back in his pocket, Raspy returned.

“You’re in luck, my boy,” he announced, again sitting down across from Redrick. “Have you heard of perpetual motion?”

“Nope,” said Redrick. “Didn’t do that in school.”

“Just as well,” said Raspy. He pulled out another bundle of cash. “That’s the payment for the first specimen,” he declared, unwrapping the cash. “For every new specimen of this ring of yours, you’ll get two such bundles. You got it, my boy? Two bundles. But only under the condition that no one but us ever finds out about these rings. Deal?”

Redrick silently put the money in his pocket and got up. “I’m going,” he said. “When and where next time?”

Raspy also got up. “You’ll get a call,” he said. “Wait by the phone every Friday from nine to nine thirty in the morning. They’ll send regards from Phil and Hugh and arrange a meeting.”

Redrick nodded and headed for the door. Raspy followed him, laying his hand on Redrick’s shoulder.

“There’s something I want you to understand,” he continued. “This is all very nice, really quite charming, and the ring—that’s just lovely. But what we need most of all are two things: the photos and a full container. Bring us back our camera, but with the film exposed, and our porcelain container, but full instead of empty, and you’ll never need to enter the Zone again…”

Redrick shifted his shoulder, shook off the hand, unlocked the door, and left. He walked along the soft carpet, not looking back, the entire time feeling the angelic unblinking gaze on the back of this head. He didn’t wait for the elevator and instead walked down from the eighth floor.

After leaving the Metropole, he hailed a cab and took it to the other side of town. He didn’t know the driver, a new guy, some pimply beaked kid, one of the thousands who had recently flocked to Harmont looking for hair-raising adventures, untold riches, international fame, or some special religion; they came in droves but ended up as taxi drivers, waiters, construction workers, and bouncers in brothels—yearning, untalented, tormented by nebulous desires, angry at the whole world, horribly disappointed, and convinced that here, too, they’d been cheated. Half of them, after lingering for a month or two, returned home cursing, spreading news of their great disappointment to almost every corner of the globe; a rare few became stalkers and quickly perished, never having made any sense of things and turning posthumously into legendary heroes; some managed to get jobs at the Institute, the brightest and best-educated ones, capable at least of becoming lab assistants; the rest founded political parties, religious sects, and self-help groups and idled away their evenings in bars, brawling over differences of opinion, over girls, or just for the hell of it. From time to time they organized protests and petitions, staged demonstrations, went on strike—sit-down strikes, stand-up strikes, and even lie-down strikes—enraging the city police, administrators, and established residents; but the longer they stayed, the more thoroughly they calmed down and resigned themselves to things, and the less they worried about what exactly they were doing in Harmont.

The pimply driver reeked of alcohol, and his eyes were red like a rabbit’s, but he was extremely agitated and immediately started telling Redrick how a corpse from the cemetery showed up this morning on his street. “He came to his old house, except this house, it’s been boarded up for years, everyone has left—the old lady, his widow, and his daughter with her husband, and his grandkids. He passed away, the neighbors say, about thirty years ago, before the Visit, and now here you go—hello!—he’s turned up. He walked around and around the house, rattled the door, then sat down by the fence and just stayed there. A crowd gathered—the whole neighborhood had come to gawk—but, of course, no one had the guts to go near. Eventually, someone figured it out: broke down the door to his house, gave him a way in. And what do you know, he stood up and walked in and closed the door behind him. I had to get to work, don’t know how it turned out, all I know is that they were planning to call the Institute, so they’d take him the hell away from us. You know what they say? They say the military has been drafting an order, that these corpses, if their relatives have moved out, should be sent to them at their new place of residence. Won’t the family be delighted! And the stench of him… Well, he’s not a corpse for nothing.”

“Stop,” said Redrick. “Drop me off here.”

He rummaged in his pocket. He didn’t find any change and had to break a hundred. Then he stood by the gates, waiting for the taxi to leave. Burbridge’s cottage wasn’t bad: two floors, a glass-enclosed wing with a billiards room, a well-kept garden, a hothouse, and a white gazebo among the apple trees. And all this was surrounded by a carved iron fence, painted light green. Redrick rang the doorbell a couple of times, the gate opened with a slight squeak, and Redrick started slowly walking along a sandy path lined with rosebushes. The Gopher—gnarled, dark crimson, and quivering with enthusiasm from the desire to be of service—was already waiting on the cottage porch. Seized with impatience, he turned sideways, lowered his foot down a step, groped convulsively for support, steadied himself, then reached for the bottom step with his other foot, the entire time jerking his healthy arm in Redrick’s direction: Wait, wait, I’m coming.

“Hey, Red!” called a female voice from the garden.

Redrick turned his head and, in the greenery next to the carved white roof of the gazebo, saw bare, tanned shoulders, a bright red mouth, and a waving hand. He nodded to the Gopher, turned off the path, cut through the rosebushes, and, walking on the soft green grass, headed toward the gazebo.

A huge red mat was spread on the lawn, and on it, holding a glass in her hand, Dina Burbridge lounged regally in a minuscule bathing suit; a book with a colorful cover lay nearby, and right there, in the shadow of the bush, stood a metal ice bucket with a slender bottle neck peeking out from inside.

“What’s up, Red?” said Dina Burbridge, making a welcoming gesture with her glass. “And where’s the old man? Did he get caught again?”

Redrick came up to her and, placing his briefcase behind his back, stopped, admiring her from above. Yes, the children Burbridge had wished up in the Zone were magnificent. She was silky, luscious, sensuously curvy, without a single flaw, a single extra ounce—a hundred and twenty pounds of twenty-year-old delectable flesh—and then there were the emerald eyes, which shone from within, and the full moist lips and the even white teeth and the jet-black hair that gleamed in the sun, carelessly thrown over one shoulder; the sunlight flowed over her body, drifting from her shoulders to her stomach and hips, throwing shadows between her almost-bare breasts. He was standing over her and openly checking her out while she looked up at him, smiling knowingly; then she brought her glass to her lips and took a few sips.

“Want some?” she said, licking her lips, and, waiting just long enough for him to appreciate the double entendre, offered him the glass.

He turned away, looked around, and, finding a lounge chair in the shade, sat down and stretched his legs. “Burbridge is in the hospital,” he said. “They’ll cut off his legs.”

Still smiling, she looked at him with one eye, the other hidden behind a thick mass of hair falling over her shoulder, except her smile had frozen—it was a fixed grin on a tan face. She mechanically shook her drink, as if listening to the tinkling of the ice against the glass, and asked, “Both legs?”

“Both of them. Maybe up to the knee, and maybe higher.”

She put down the glass and swept the hair off her face. She was no longer smiling. “A pity,” she said. “That means that you, then…”

To her, Dina Burbridge, and her alone, he could have described exactly what happened and how it all was. He could have probably even described how he came back to the car, gripping the brass knuckles, and how Burbridge had begged—not even for himself, but for the kids, for her and for Archie, and how he promised the Golden Sphere. But he didn’t describe it. He silently reached into his pocket, pulled out a bundle of cash, and threw it on the red mat, next to Dina’s long bare legs. The bills spread into a colorful fan. Dina absentmindedly picked up a few and began to examine them, as if she had never seen one before but wasn’t all that interested.

“The last pay, then,” she said.

Redrick bent down from the lounge chair, reached for the bucket, and, taking out the bottle, glanced at the label. Water was trickling down the dark glass, and Redrick held the bottle off to the side so it wouldn’t drip on his pants. He didn’t like expensive whiskey, but right now it would do. And he was about to chug some straight from the bottle, but was stopped by inarticulate protesting sounds coming from behind his back. He turned around and saw the Gopher hurrying across the lawn, painfully moving his twisted legs, holding a tall glass with a clear mixture in front of him with both hands. He was sweating from the strain, perspiration poured down his dark crimson face, and his bloodshot eyes were almost popping out of their sockets; then, when he saw that Redrick was looking at him, he almost desperately held the glass out in front of him, making the same pitiful mewling sound, opening his toothless mouth wide in helpless frustration.

“I’m waiting, I’m waiting,” Redrick told him and stuck the bottle back into the ice.

The Gopher finally limped up, gave Redrick the glass, and with a timid familiarity patted his shoulder with a clawlike hand.

“Thank you, Dixon,” said Redrick seriously. “That’s exactly what I needed right now. As usual, you’re on top of your game, Dixon.”

And while the Gopher in embarrassment and delight shook his head and spasmodically beat his hip with his healthy hand, Redrick solemnly raised the glass, nodded to him, and drank half in one gulp. He looked at Dina. “Want some?” he said, showing her the glass.

She wasn’t answering. She was folding a banknote in half, then again, and again.

“Stop that,” he said. “You’ll manage. Your father—”

She interrupted him. “So you carried him out, then,” she said. She wasn’t asking, but stating. “Hauled him, the moron, through the whole Zone, carried that piece of scum on your back—you redheaded idiot, what a chance you blew!”

He looked at her, forgetting his drink, while she got up, came closer, stepping over the scattered banknotes, and stopped in front of him; she put her fists on her hips, blocking the whole world from him with her incredible body, smelling of sweet sweat and perfume.

“He has all you idiots wrapped around his finger… Dancing on your bones, on your skulls… You just wait, you just wait, he’ll be dancing on your bones on crutches, he’ll still show you brotherly love and mercy!” She was now almost shrieking. “Promised you the Golden Sphere, huh? Maps and traps, huh? Moron! I can tell from your freckled mug that he promised. You just wait, he’ll still show you a map, may the foolish soul of redheaded idiot Redrick Schuhart rest in peace…”

Then Redrick slowly stood up and slapped her, and she stopped midsentence, sank down as if her legs had given way, and buried her face in her hands.

“Idiot… redhead.” she said indistinctly. “What a chance you blew. What a chance!”

Redrick, looking at her from above, finished his drink and, without turning around, shoved it at the Gopher. There was nothing else to say. Burbridge sure finagled some great kids out of the Zone. Loving and respectful ones.

He went out onto the street, flagged a cab, and ordered the driver to take him to the Borscht. He needed to finish with all this business, he was unbearably sleepy, the world was swimming before his eyes—and he did in fact fall asleep, slumping heavily on his briefcase, and only woke up when the driver shook his shoulder.

“We’re here, mister.”

“Where are we?” he asked, sleepily looking around. “I told you to drive to the bank.”

“No way, mister.” The driver scowled. “You said the Borscht. This is the Borscht.”

“All right,” grumbled Redrick. “Must have dreamed it.”

He paid the fare and climbed out, painfully moving his stiff legs. It was very hot, and the pavement was already baking. Redrick noticed he was soaked through, that his mouth tasted vile, and that his eyes were tearing up. Before coming in, he took a look around. As was usual at this hour, the street in front of the Borscht was deserted. The businesses across the street weren’t open yet, even the Borscht was technically closed, but Ernest was already on duty—wiping glasses, sullenly glancing from behind the bar at the three goons lapping up beer at a corner table. The remaining tables still had chairs on top of them, an unfamiliar black man in a white jacket was industriously scrubbing the floor, and another black man was struggling with a case of beer behind Ernest’s back. Redrick came up to the bar, put his briefcase on top, and said hello. Ernest grumbled something unfriendly.

“Pour me some beer,” said Redrick, yawning uncontrollably.

Ernest slammed an empty stein down on the bar, grabbed a bottle from the fridge, opened it, and tilted it over the stein. Redrick, covering his mouth, gaped at Ernest’s hand. The hand was shaking. The neck of the bottle kept clattering against the stein. Redrick looked Ernest in the face. Ernest’s heavy lids were lowered, his small mouth was twisted, his fat cheeks drooped. One of the men was swinging a mop right under Redrick’s feet, the goons in the corner were viciously arguing about the races, and the man handling the beer bumped into Ernest so hard he wobbled. He began mumbling apologies. In a strained voice, Ernest asked, “You got it?”

“Got what?” Redrick looked over his shoulder.

One of the goons lazily got up from the table, walked to the entrance, and stood in the doorway, lighting a cigarette.

“Let’s go have a talk,” said Ernest.

The man with the mop was now also standing between Redrick and the door. An enormous black man, like Gutalin, only twice as broad. “Let’s go,” said Redrick, grabbing his briefcase. He was now wide awake.

He walked behind the bar and squeezed past the black man with the beer. The guy must have crushed his finger—he was licking his nail, scowling at Redrick from beneath his brows: another powerfully built black man, with a broken nose and cauliflower ears. Ernest went into the back room, and Redrick followed, because by now, all three goons were standing by the entrance, and the man with the mop blocked the way to the storeroom.

In the back room Ernest stepped aside and, hunching over, sat on a chair next to the wall while Captain Quarterblad, mournful and yellow, got up from behind the desk; a huge UN soldier, with his helmet pulled over his eyes, materialized from the left and quickly patted Redrick down, going over his pockets with enormous hands. He paused at the right side pocket, removed the brass knuckles, and softly nudged Redrick toward the captain. Redrick approached the desk and placed his briefcase in front of Captain Quarterblad.

“Good job, bastard,” he told Ernest.

Ernest gave him a dejected look and shrugged one shoulder. Everything was clear. The two black men were already standing, smirking, in the door, and there were no other exits, and the window was shut and grated with thick iron bars.

Captain Quarterblad, grimacing in disgust, was digging with both hands through the briefcase, laying the contents out on the table: two extra-small empties; sixteen sparks of various sizes in a plastic bag; two beautifully preserved sponges; and a single jar of carbonated clay.

“Is there anything in your pockets?” Captain Quarterblad asked softly. “Take it all out…”

“Assholes,” said Redrick. “Idiots.”

He stuck his hand in his pocket and hurled a bundle of cash down on the table. The bills flew in all directions.

“Wow!” said Captain Quarterblad. “Anything else?”

“You stinking toads!” shrieked Redrick, grabbed the second bundle from his pocket, and hurled it forcefully at his feet. “Take it! Choke on it!”

“Very interesting,” Captain Quarterblad said calmly. “And now pick it up.”

“Screw you!” said Redrick, putting his hands behind his back. “Your lackeys will pick it up. You’ll pick it up yourself!”

“Pick up the money, stalker,” said Captain Quarterblad without raising his voice, digging his fists into the table and leaning forward with his whole body.

For a few seconds they silently looked each other in the eye, then Redrick, muttering curses, squatted down on the floor and started reluctantly collecting the money. The guys behind his back snickered, and the UN soldier snorted spitefully. “Don’t snort!” said Redrick. “What are you, a horse?”

He was already crawling on his knees, collecting bills one by one, getting closer and closer to the dark copper ring, lying peacefully in a dirt-filled groove in the floor; he turned to position himself, continuing to shout dirty words, all the ones that he knew, and a few he made up along the way, and when the moment came, he shut up, strained, grabbed the ring, and pulled on it with all his might: the thrown-open trapdoor hadn’t even clattered onto the floor when he was diving headfirst, arms outstretched, into the cool dank darkness of the wine cellar.

He landed on his hands, rolled over, jumped up, and, crouching, relying only on memory and on luck, blindly threw himself into a narrow passage between the rows of boxes; he bumped into the boxes as he ran, listening to them clang and clatter into the passage behind him, and, stumbling, ran up the invisible steps, rammed his whole body into a rusty tin-plated door, and burst into Ernest’s garage. He was shaking and breathing heavily, red spots swam in front of his eyes, and his heart thumped loudly and painfully in his throat, but he didn’t even stop for a second. He immediately threw himself into a corner and, skinning his hands, started to tear down the mountain of junk that hid the missing planks in the garage wall. Then he lay on his stomach and crawled through the hole, listening to something tear in his jacket. Out in the yard—as narrow as a well—he crouched by the garbage bins, pulled off his jacket, and tore off his tie; he quickly looked himself over, dusted off his pants, stood up, and, running across the yard, ducked into a low foul-smelling tunnel that led to an identical adjacent yard. As he ran, he pricked up his ears, but the wail of the police sirens wasn’t audible yet; then he ran even faster, scattering recoiling children, diving under hanging laundry, and crawling through holes in rotten fences—trying to quickly flee this district while Captain Quarterblad still hadn’t cordoned it off. He knew these places like the back of his hand. In these yards, these cellars, and these abandoned laundries he had played as a boy, everywhere around here he had acquaintances and even friends, and under different circumstances it would be child’s play to hide here and sit it out, even for a whole week; but that wasn’t why he had made a “daring escape from custody” right under Captain Quarterblad’s nose, instantly adding a year to his sentence.

He had a stroke of luck. Yet another procession of some league swarmed down Seventh Street, hollering and raising dust—some two hundred long-haired idiot men and short-haired idiot women, waving stupid signs, as filthy and tattered as himself and even worse, as if they’d all been crawling through holes in fences, spilling garbage cans on themselves, and on top of that had recently spent a wild night in a coal bin. He jumped out of the doorway, burst into the crowd, and, zigzagging, shoving, stepping on toes, getting the occasional fist in the face and returning the favor, forced his way through to the other side and ducked into another doorway—right at the moment when the familiar repulsive wail of the police sirens sounded ahead, and the procession stopped, folding like an accordion. But he was now in a different district, and Captain Quarterblad had no way of knowing which one.

He approached his garage from the direction of the electronics warehouse and had to wait for a while as the workers loaded their cart with gigantic cardboard boxes with television sets. He made himself comfortable in the stunted lilac bushes in front of a windowless wall of a neighboring house, caught his breath, and smoked a cigarette. He smoked greedily, crouching down, leaning his back against the rough plaster of the wall, occasionally touching his cheek to still the nervous tic, and thought and thought and thought; then when the cart with the workers rolled, honking, into the yard, he laughed and softly said in its direction, “Thanks, boys, you slowed an idiot down… gave him time to think.” From that moment on, he was quick without being rash, his motions deft and deliberate, as if he were working in the Zone.

He crept into his garage through a secret passage, silently removed the old seat cushion, stuck a hand into the basket, carefully took the package out of the bag, and placed it under his shirt. He grabbed an old threadbare leather jacket from the hook, found a grease-stained cap in the corner, and, using both hands, pulled it low over his forehead. Narrow strips of sunlight, full of dancing dust particles, entered the gloom of the garage through the cracks in the door; the kids in the yard shrieked in excitement and glee, and just as he was getting ready to leave, he suddenly recognized his daughter’s voice. Then he pressed his eye to the widest crack and watched for a bit as the Monkey, waving two balloons, ran around the new swings while three old ladies with knitting in their laps sat on a bench nearby and stared at her, grimly pursing their lips. Exchanging their lousy opinions, the old hags. But the kids, they’re just fine, playing with her like everything’s all right, it wasn’t for nothing he bribed them as best he could—the wooden slide he made them, and the dollhouse, and the swing… And that bench, on which the old hags were assembled—he made that, too. All right, he said, only moving his lips as he tore himself away from the crack, took one last look at the garage, and ran into the passage.

In the southwestern outskirts, by the abandoned gas station at the end of Miner Street, there was a telephone booth. Lord knows who used it now—the surrounding houses were all boarded up, and farther south stretched the endless vacant lot of the old town dump. Redrick sat right on the ground in the shadow of the booth and stuck his hand into the space beneath it. He groped around and felt the dusty wax paper and the handle of the gun that was wrapped in the paper; the zinc-coated cartridge box was also in its place, as was the bag of bracelets and the old wallet with fake documents—the cache was intact. Then he took off his leather jacket and cap and felt under his shirt. He sat there for an entire minute, weighing in his hand the porcelain container with inevitable and inexorable death within. He felt his cheek twitch again.

“Schuhart,” he muttered, not hearing his voice. “What are you doing, bastard? You lowlife, with this thing they’ll squash us all…” He pressed his fingers to his twitching cheek, but it didn’t help. “Those jerks,” he said about the workers loading televisions onto the cart. “Had to get in my way… I’d have tossed the wretched stuff back in the Zone, no one would have been the wiser.”

He looked around in despair. The hot air was quivering over the cracked pavement, the boarded-up windows stared sullenly, dust clouds were wandering over the plain. He was all alone.

“Fine,” he said with decision. “All for one, only the Lord for all. In our age it’ll do…”

Hurrying so he wouldn’t change his mind again, he stuffed the container in the cap and wrapped the cap in his leather jacket. He stood on his knees and, pushing with all his strength, slightly tilted the booth. The thick package fit in the bottom of the pit, still leaving a lot of free space. He carefully put the booth down, rocked it with both hands, and stood up, dusting off his palms.

“That’s that,” he said. “It’s done.”

He climbed into the oppressively hot booth, inserted a coin, and dialed a number.

“Guta,” he said. “Don’t worry, please. I got caught again.” He could hear her shuddering sigh and hurriedly said, “This is all peanuts, six to eight months… with visits… We’ll manage. And you won’t be left without money, they’ll send you money.” She was still silent. “Tomorrow morning they’ll summon you to headquarters, we’ll meet there. Bring the Monkey.”

“Will there be a search?” she said tonelessly.

“Let them search if they like. The place is clean. All right, stay strong. Hang in there and don’t worry. Married a stalker, now don’t complain. Well, till tomorrow… Keep in mind, I never called you. Kisses.”

He abruptly hung up and stood still for a few seconds, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and clenching his teeth so hard his ears rang. Then he again inserted a coin and dialed another number.

“Hello?” said Raspy.

“This is Schuhart speaking,” said Redrick. “Listen carefully and don’t interrupt.”

“Schuhart?” said Raspy with very genuine surprise. “Which Schuhart?”

“Don’t interrupt, I said! I got caught, escaped, and am now going to give myself up. They’ll give me two and a half or three years. My wife will be left penniless. You will provide for her. Make sure she has everything she needs, you understand? Do you understand, I’m asking?”

“Go on,” said Raspy.

“Near the place where we first met, there’s a telephone booth. There’s only one here, you’ll find it. The porcelain container is lying underneath. If you want it, take it; if you don’t, don’t take it—but make sure my wife has everything she needs. You and I still have a lot of work to do. And if I come back and find that you’ve double-crossed me… I don’t suggest you double-cross me. Got it?”

“I got it all,” said Raspy. “Thank you.” After hesitating a little, he asked, “Maybe a lawyer?”

“No,” said Redrick. “All the money, to the last penny—to my wife. Bye.”

He hung up the phone, looked around, stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, and leisurely walked up Miner Street between the abandoned, boarded-up buildings.