Roadside Picnic

3

^{RICHARD H. NOONAN, 51 YEARS OLD, A REPRESENTATIVE OF ELECTRONIC EQUIPMENT SUPPLIERS TO THE HARMONT BRANCH OF THE IIEC.}

Richard H. Noonan was sitting behind his office desk and doodling in an enormous notebook. At the same time, he was smiling sympathetically, nodding his bald head, and not listening to his visitor. He was simply waiting for a phone call while his visitor, Dr. Pillman, was lazily reprimanding him. Or imagining that he was reprimanding him. Or trying to convince himself that he was reprimanding him.

“We’ll keep all that in mind, Valentine,” Noonan said finally, finishing his tenth doodle for an even count and slamming his notebook shut. “You’re right, this is a disgrace.”

Valentine stretched out a slender hand and carefully flicked the ashes into the ashtray. “And what exactly will you be keeping in mind?” he inquired politely.

“Oh, everything you said,” replied Noonan cheerfully, leaning back in his armchair. “Every last word.”

“And what did I say?”

“That’s irrelevant,” said Noonan. “Whatever you said, we’ll keep it all in mind.”

Valentine (Dr. Valentine Pillman, Nobel laureate, etc., etc.) was sitting in front of him in a deep armchair—small, neat, and elegant, his suede jacket spotless, and his pulled-up trousers ironed to perfection. He was wearing a blindingly white shirt, a severe solid-colored tie, and gleaming shoes; there was a sardonic smile on his pale thin lips, enormous sunglasses hid his eyes, and his black hair bristled in a crew cut over a broad low forehead. “In my opinion, they pay you your incredible salary for nothing,” he said. “And on top of that, Dick, I think you’re also a saboteur.”

“Shh!” said Noonan in a whisper. “For God’s sake, not so loud.”

“As a matter of fact,” continued Valentine, “I’ve been watching you for some time. As far as I can tell, you do no work at all.”

“Wait a minute!” interrupted Noonan, wagging a fat pink finger at him in protest. “What do you mean, ‘no work’? Has a single claim been without consequences?”

“No idea,” said Valentine, flicking his ashes again. “We get good equipment, and we get bad equipment. We get the good stuff more often, but what you have to do with it—I don’t have a clue.”

“And if it wasn’t for me,” objected Noonan, “the good stuff would be rarer. Besides, you scientists keep damaging good equipment, you file claims, and who covers for you then? Take, for example, what you’ve done with the bloodhound. An outstanding machine, made a brilliant showing during the geological surveys—reliable, autonomous. And you were running it at ridiculous settings, rode the mechanism too hard, like a racehorse…”

“Didn’t give it enough water and didn’t feed it oats,” commented Valentine. “You’re a stablemaster, Dick, not a manufacturer!”

“A stablemaster,” Noonan repeated thoughtfully. “That’s more like it. Now a few years ago we had a Dr. Panov working here—you probably knew him, he later perished… Anyway, he figured that my true calling is breeding crocodiles.”

“I’ve read his papers,” said Valentine. “A very serious-minded and thoughtful man. If I were you, I’d consider his words carefully.”

“All right. I’ll mull them over sometime. Why don’t you tell me instead what happened at yesterday’s experimental SK-3 launch?”

“SK-3?” repeated Valentine, furrowing his pale forehead. “Oh… The minstrel! Nothing in particular. It followed the route well and brought back a few bracelets and a strange disk.” He paused. “And a buckle from a pair of Lux-brand suspenders.”

“What kind of disk?”

“An alloy of vanadium, hard to say more right now. No unusual attributes.”

“Then why did the SK grab it?”

“Ask the company. That’s more in your line.”

Noonan pensively tapped his notebook with his pencil. “After all, it was an experimental launch,” he mused. “Or maybe the disk lost charge. You know what I’d advise you to do? Throw it back into the Zone, and after a day or two send the bloodhound after it. I remember, the year before last—”

The phone rang, and Noonan, immediately forgetting Valentine, grabbed the receiver.

“Mr. Noonan?” asked the secretary. “General Lemchen calling for you again.”

“Put him through.”

Valentine stood up, placed his extinguished cigarette in the ashtray, twirled two fingers near his temple as a sign of farewell, and went out—small, straight backed, well built.

“Mr. Noonan?” said the familiar drawl.

“Speaking.”

“It’s hard to find you at work, Mr. Noonan.”

“A new shipment has arrived…”

“Yes, I already know that. Mr. Noonan, I’m in town for a short time. There are a couple of issues that need to be discussed in person. I’m referring to the latest contracts for Mitsubishi Denshi. The legal aspects.”

“I’m at your service.”

“Then, if you don’t mind, we’ll meet in half an hour in our department. Is that convenient for you?”

“That’s fine. See you in half an hour.”

Richard Noonan put down the receiver, got up, and, rubbing his plump hands, walked around his office. He even started singing a pop song but immediately hit a sour note and laughed genially at himself. Then he took his hat, threw his raincoat over his arm, and went into the waiting room.

“My dear,” he said to the secretary, “I have to go make my rounds. You’re now in charge of the troops. Hold the fort, as they say, and I’ll bring you back some chocolates.”

The secretary perked up. Noonan blew her an air kiss and walked briskly along the Institute’s corridors. A few times people tried to waylay him; he dodged them, put them off with jokes, urged them to hold the fort without him, to take it easy, not to overwork themselves; finally, having successfully avoided everyone, he strode out of the building, waving his unopened pass in the guard’s face with his usual motion.

Heavy clouds were hanging over the city, it was muggy, and the first hesitant raindrops were spreading into little black stars on the pavement. Throwing his raincoat over his head and shoulders, Noonan trotted along the long row of cars to his Peugeot, dived inside, and, tearing his raincoat off his head, threw it into the backseat. He took a round black spacell out of a side pocket of his jacket, inserted it into a jack on the dashboard, and pushed it in with his thumb until it clicked. Finally, wriggling his rear, he made himself comfortable behind the wheel and pressed on the gas. The Peugeot silently rolled into the middle of the street and raced toward the exit from the restricted area.

The rain gushed down all at once, as if a gigantic bucket of water had been tipped over in the sky. The road became slippery, and the car started skidding on turns. Noonan turned on his windshield wipers and slowed down. So they’ve received the report, he thought. Now they’ll praise me. Well, I’m all for that. I like being praised. Especially by General Lemchen, in spite of himself. It’s funny, I wonder why we like being praised. There’s no money in it. Fame? How famous could we get? He became famous: now he’s known to three. Maybe four, if you count Bayliss. Aren’t humans absurd? I suppose we like praise for its own sake. The way children like ice cream. It’s an inferiority complex, that’s what it is. Praise assuages our insecurities. And ridiculously so. How could I rise in my own opinion? Don’t I know myself—fat old Richard H. Noonan? By the way, what does that H stand for? What a thing! And there’s no one to ask. Not like I can ask General Lemchen… Oh, I got it! Herbert. Richard Herbert Noonan. Boy, is it pouring.

He turned onto Central Avenue, and a thought popped into his head. How our little town has grown in recent years! Skyscrapers all around… There’s another one under construction. And what will we have here? Oh yes, the Luna Complex—featuring the world’s best jazz and a variety show and the brothel that’ll hold a thousand—all for our valiant troops and brave tourists, especially the wealthy ones, and for our noble knights of science. Meanwhile, the suburbs are emptying out. And there’s no longer anywhere for the returning dead to go.

“The risen dead have no place to return,” he enunciated, “and that is why they’re sorrowful and stern.”

Yes, I’d like to know how all this will end. By the way, about ten years ago I knew with absolute certainty what would happen. Impenetrable police lines. A belt of empty land fifty miles wide. Scientists and soldiers, no one else. A hideous sore on the face of the planet permanently sealed off… And the funny thing is, it seemed like everybody thought this, not just me. The speeches that were made, the bills that were proposed! And now you can’t even remember how all this unanimous steely resolve suddenly evaporated into thin air. On the one hand, we are forced to admit, on the other hand, we can’t dispute. And it all seems to have started when the stalkers brought the first spacells out of the Zone. The batteries… Yes, I think that’s really how it started. Especially when it was discovered that spacells multiply. It turned out that the sore wasn’t such a sore; maybe it wasn’t a sore at all but, instead, a treasure trove… And now no one has a clue what it is—a sore, a treasure trove, an evil temptation, Pandora’s box, a monster, a demon… We’re using it bit by bit. We’ve struggled for twenty years, wasted billions, but we still haven’t stamped out the organized theft. Everyone makes a buck on the side, while the learned men pompously hold forth: On the one hand, we are forced to admit; on the other hand, we can’t dispute, because object so-and-so, when irradiated with X-rays at an eighteen-degree angle, emits quasiheated electrons at a twenty-two-degree angle. The hell with it! One way or another, I won’t live till the end.

The car was rolling past the Vulture Burbridge’s mansion. Because of the torrential rain, the whole house was lit up—in the second-story windows, in gorgeous Dina’s rooms, you could see dancing pairs moving to the music. Either they’ve been up since dawn, or they’re still going strong from last night, he thought. That’s the fashion in town nowadays—parties around the clock. A vigorous generation we’ve raised, hardworking and untiring in their pursuits…

Noonan stopped the car in front of an unprepossessing building with a modest sign—LAW FIRM OF CORSH, CORSH, AND SAYMACK. He took the spacell out and put it in his pocket, pulled his raincoat over his head again, grabbed his hat, and made a headlong rush inside—past the porter, absorbed in his newspaper, and up the stairs, covered with threadbare carpet—then he ran, heels tapping on the floor, along a dark second-story hallway permeated with a distinctive odor he had long ago stopped trying to identify. He opened the door at the end of the hallway and entered the waiting room. Behind the secretary’s desk sat an unfamiliar, very tan young man. He wasn’t wearing his jacket, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. He was rummaging in the guts of some complicated electronic device that had replaced the typewriter on top of the desk. Richard Noonan hung his raincoat and hat on a hook, smoothed down the remnants of his hair with both hands, and looked inquiringly at the young man. He nodded. Noonan opened the door to the office.

General Lemchen rose heavily from the large leather armchair by the curtained window to greet him. His square-jawed soldierly face was gathered into creases, representing either a welcoming smile or displeasure with the weather, or possibly a barely suppressed desire to sneeze. “Oh, there you are,” he drawled. “Come in, take a seat.”

Noonan looked around for a place to sit and couldn’t find anything except a hard straight-backed chair tucked behind the desk. He sat on the desk’s edge. His cheerful mood was dissipating for some reason—he himself didn’t yet understand why. Suddenly, he realized that there would be no praise today.Quite the contrary. The day of wrath, he thought philosophically, and prepared for the worst.

“Feel free to smoke,” offered General Lemchen, lowering himself back into the armchair.

“No thanks, I don’t smoke.”

General Lemchen nodded his head with a look that suggested his worst suspicions had been confirmed, pressed his fingertips together in front of his face, and spent some time intently examining the resulting shape.

“I suppose the legal affairs of the Mitsubishi Denshi Company will not be under discussion today,” he said finally.

This was a joke. Richard Noonan smiled readily and answered, “As you wish!” Sitting on the desk was incredibly uncomfortable; his feet didn’t reach the floor, and the edge bit into his ass.

“I regret to inform you, Richard,” said General Lemchen, “that your report created an extremely favorable impression higher up.”

“Hmm,” said Noonan. Here it comes, he thought.

“They were even planning to present you with a medal,” continued General Lemchen, “but I suggested they wait. And I was right.” He finally tore himself away from contemplating the configuration of his fingers and glowered at Noonan from beneath his brows. “You will ask why I displayed such seemingly excessive caution.”

“You probably had your reasons,” said Noonan in a dull voice.

“Yes, I did. What do we learn from your report, Richard? The Metropole gang has been liquidated. Through your efforts. The entire Green Flower gang has been caught red-handed. Brilliant work. Also yours. The Varr, Quasimodo, and Traveling Musicians gangs and the rest, I don’t remember their names, have closed up shop, realizing that sooner or later they’d get nabbed. All this really did happen, everything has been verified by other sources. The battlefield is empty. Your victory, Richard. The enemy has retreated in disarray, having sustained heavy losses. Have I given a correct account of the situation?”

“At any rate,” Noonan said carefully, “in the last three months, the flow of materials from the Zone through Harmont has stopped… At least according to my sources,” he added.

“The enemy has retreated, right?”

“Well, if you insist on that particular expression, yes.”

“No!” said General Lemchen. “The thing is, this enemy never retreats. I know this for a fact. By hastily submitting a victorious report, Richard, you have demonstrated immaturity. That is precisely why I suggested we abstain from immediately presenting you with an award.”

To hell with you and your awards, thought Noonan, swinging his leg and sullenly staring at his shiny toe. Your medal isn’t worth the metal it’s made of. And please skip the preaching and condescension—I know perfectly well without you who I’m dealing with, and I don’t need a damn sermon about the enemy. Just tell me straight out: when, where, and how I’ve messed up… what else these bastards managed to pull… when and where they’ve found a crack. And stop beating around the bush, I’m not some green kid, I’m over half a century old, and I’m not sitting here because of your damn medals.

“What have you heard about the Golden Sphere?” asked General Lemchen abruptly.

My Lord, thought Noonan in annoyance, what does the Golden Sphere have to do with it? To hell with you and your manner of talking. “The Golden Sphere is a legend,” he reported in a flat tone. “A mythical object in the Zone, which appears in the form of a certain golden sphere and which is rumored to grant human wishes.”

“Any wishes?”

“According to the canonical text of the legend—any wishes. However, there exist variants.”

“All right,” said General Lemchen. “And what have you heard about the death lamp?”

“Eight years ago,” Noonan droned dully, “a stalker by the name of Stephen Norman, nicknamed Four-Eyes, brought out of the Zone a device that, as far as anyone could tell, consisted of a ray-emitting system fatal to Earth organisms. The aforementioned Four-Eyes was attempting to sell this instrument to the Institute. They couldn’t agree on the price. Four-Eyes left for the Zone and never came back. The current whereabouts of the instrument are unknown—the guys at the Institute are still tearing out their hair about it. Hugh, from the Metropole, who is well known to you, had offered to buy it for any sum that could fit on a check.”

“Is that all?” asked General Lemchen.

“That’s all,” answered Noonan. He looked around the room with an exaggerated motion. The room was boring; there was nothing to look at.

“OK,” said Lemchen. “And what have you heard about lobster eyes?”

“About what eyes?”

“Lobster eyes. Lobster. You know?” General Lemchen made a snipping motion with his fingers. “With claws.”

“First time I’ve heard of them,” said Noonan, frowning.

“Well, what do you know about rattling napkins?”

Noonan climbed off the desk and faced Lemchen, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “I don’t know anything,” he said. “How about you?”

“Unfortunately, I also don’t know anything. Neither about lobster eyes nor about rattling napkins. And yet they exist.”

“In my Zone?” asked Noonan.

“Sit down, sit down,” said General Lemchen, waving his hand. “Our conversation has just started. Sit down.”

Noonan walked around the desk and sat down on the hard straight-backed chair. What’s he getting at, he thought feverishly. What the hell is going on? They probably found some things in the other Zones, and he’s playing tricks on me, the bastard, may he go to hell. He’s always disliked me, the old ass, he can’t forget the limerick.

“Let us continue our little examination,” announced Lemchen, pulling back the curtain and looking out the window. “It’s pouring,” he reported. “I like it.” He let go of the curtain, leaned back in his armchair, and, staring at the ceiling, asked, “How is old Burbridge doing?”

“Burbridge? The Vulture Burbridge is under surveillance. He’s crippled, well-to-do. No connections to the Zone. He owns four bars, a dance studio, and organizes picnics for the garrison officers and tourists. His daughter, Dina, is leading a dissipated life. His son, Arthur, just finished law school.”

General Lemchen gave a contented nod. “Very concise,” he complimented. “And how is Creon the Maltese?”

“One of the few active stalkers. He was connected to the Quasimodo group and is now peddling his swag to the Institute through me. I let him roam free; someday someone might take the bait. Unfortunately, he’s been drinking a lot lately, and I’m afraid he won’t last long.”

“Connections to Burbridge?”

“Courting Dina. No luck.”

“Very good,” said General Lemchen. “And what’s going on with Red Schuhart?”

“He got out of jail a month ago. No financial difficulties. He’s trying to emigrate, but he has—” Noonan hesitated. “Anyway, he has family troubles. He has no time for the Zone.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“It’s not much,” said General Lemchen. “And how is Lucky Carter?”

“He hasn’t been a stalker for years. He sells used cars, and he also owns a shop that rejiggers vehicles to run on spacells. He has four kids; his wife died a year ago. There’s a mother-in-law.”

Lemchen nodded. “So, which of the old-timers have I forgotten?” he inquired amiably.

“You’ve forgotten Jonathan Miles, nicknamed the Cactus. He’s currently in the hospital, dying of cancer. And you’ve forgotten Gutalin—”

“Yes, yes, what about Gutalin?”

“Gutalin’s the same as always,” said Noonan. “He has a gang of three men. They disappear into the Zone for weeks; everything they find, they destroy. But his Warring Angels society has collapsed.”

“Why?”

“Well, as you remember, they would buy up swag, then Gutalin would haul it back into the Zone. Returning Satan’s works to Satan. Nowadays there’s nothing to buy, and besides, the new director of the Institute has set the police on them.”

“I understand,” said General Lemchen. “And the young ones?”

“Oh, the young ones… They come and go; there are five or six with some experience, but lately they’ve had no one to sell the swag to, and they’ve become confused. I’m taming them bit by bit. I would say, chief, that my Zone is practically free of stalkers. The old-timers are gone, the young ones are clueless, and on top of that, the prestige of the craft isn’t what it once was. The coming thing is technology, robot-stalkers.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard of this,” said General Lemchen. “However, these robots aren’t even worth the energy they consume. Or am I mistaken?”

“That’s just a matter of time. They’ll soon be worth it.”

“How soon?”

“In five or six years.”

General Lemchen nodded again. “By the way, you might not have heard this yet, but the enemy has also started using robot-stalkers.”

“In my Zone?” asked Noonan again, pricking up his ears.

“In yours as well. In your case, they set up base in Rexopolis and use a helicopter to convey the equipment over the mountains to Serpent’s Gorge, to the Black Lake, and to the foothills of Boulder’s Peak.”

“But that’s all on the periphery,” said Noonan suspiciously. “It’s empty, what could they possibly find?”

“Little, very little. But they do find it. However, that’s just for reference, it’s not your concern… Let us recap. There are almost no professional stalkers left in Harmont. Those who are left have no connection to the Zone. The young ones are confused and are currently in the process of being tamed. The enemy has been defeated, repulsed, and is holed up somewhere licking his wounds. Swag is scarce, and when it does appear, there’s nobody to sell it to. The illegal flow of materials from the Harmont Zone has now been over for three months. Correct?”

Noonan stayed silent. Now’s the time, he thought. Now he’ll let me have it. But what could I have missed? And it must be quite the oversight. Well, go on, go on, bastard! Don’t drag it out…

“I don’t hear an answer,” said General Lemchen, cupping a hand to his hairy, wrinkled ear.

“All right, chief,” said Noonan gloomily. “That’s enough. You’ve already boiled me and fried me, now you can serve me up.”

General Lemchen vaguely harrumphed. “You have absolutely nothing to say for yourself,” he said with unexpected bitterness. “Here you stand, looking dumb before authority, but imagine how I felt, when two days ago—” He cut himself off, stood up, and plodded toward his safe. “In short, during the last two months, according to our sources alone, the enemy forces have received more than six thousand units of material from various Zones.” He stopped near the safe, stroked its painted side, and whirled toward Noonan. “Don’t kid yourself!” he roared. “The fingerprints of Burbridge! The fingerprints of the Maltese! The fingerprints of Ben-Halevy the Nose, whom you didn’t even bother to mention! The fingerprints of Nasal Haresh and Midget Zmig! This is how you tame your youths! Bracelets! Needles! White whirligigs! And if that wasn’t enough—we’ve got lobster eyes, bitches’ rattles, and rattling napkins, whatever the hell they are! Damn them all!”

He cut himself off again, returned to the armchair, joined his fingertips, and inquired politely, “What do you think about this, Richard?”

Noonan took out a handkerchief and wiped his neck and the back of his head. “I don’t think anything,” he croaked honestly. “I’m sorry, chief, right now I’m just… Let me catch my breath… Burbridge! I’d bet a whole month’s salary that Burbridge has no connection to the Zone! I know his every move! He organizes picnics and drinking parties at the lakes, he’s raking it in, and he simply doesn’t need… I’m sorry, I’m babbling nonsense of course, but I swear I haven’t lost sight of Burbridge since he got out of the hospital.”

“I won’t detain you any longer,” said General Lemchen. “You have a week. Provide an explanation for how material from your Zone falls into the hands of Burbridge and the rest of that scum. Good-bye!”

Noonan stood up, awkwardly nodded to General Lemchen’s profile, and, continuing to wipe his profusely sweating neck, fled to the reception area. The tan young man was smoking, staring thoughtfully into the entrails of the disassembled machine. He cast a cursory glance in Noonan’s direction—his eyes were blank, focused inward.

Richard Noonan clumsily pulled on his hat, grabbed his raincoat, tucked it under his arm, and beat a hasty retreat. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before, he fumed, his thoughts confused and disjointed. Give me a break—Ben-Halevy the Nose! He’s already earned a nickname… When? That twerp—a strong wind could snap him in half… That snot-nosed kid… No, something’s not right. Damn you, Vulture, you legless bastard! You’ve really fucked me this time! Caught me with my pants down, fed me a load of bullshit. How in the world did this happen? This simply couldn’t have happened! Just like that time in Singapore—face slammed against the table, head slammed against the wall…

He got into his car and, unable to think straight, spent a while groping under the dashboard in search of the ignition. His hat was dripping onto his knees, so he took it off and blindly hurled it into the back. Rain was flooding the windshield, and for some reason Richard Noonan kept imagining that this was why he had no idea what to do next. Realizing this, he banged his bald forehead with his fist. That helped. He immediately remembered that there was no ignition and there couldn’t possibly be and that in his pocket was a spacell. A perpetual battery. And he had to take the damn thing out of his pocket and stick it into the jack, and then he could at least drive away—drive as far as possible from this place, where that old ass was certainly watching him from the window…

Noonan’s hand, which was holding the spacell, froze halfway. All right. At least I know where to start. I’ll start with him. Boy, how I’ll start with him! He won’t even know what hit him. And the fun I’ll have! He turned on the windshield wipers and sped along the boulevard, seeing almost nothing in front of him but already calming down. Fine. Let it be like Singapore. After all, Singapore turned out OK. Big deal—your face got slammed against the table. It might have been worse. It might not have been your face, and it might not have been a table, but something nail studded… My God, this could all be so simple! We could round up these scum and put them away for a decade… or send them the hell away! Now, in Russia they’ve never even heard of stalkers. Over there, they really have an empty belt around the Zone—a hundred miles wide, no one around, none of these stinking tourists, and no Burbridges. Think simple, gentlemen! I swear this doesn’t need to be so complicated. No business in the Zone—good-bye, off you go to the hundred and first mile. All right, let’s not get sidetracked. Where’s my little establishment? Can’t see a damn thing… Oh, there it is.

It wasn’t a busy hour, but Five Minutes was blazing with lights fit for the Metropole. Shaking off like a dog after a swim, Richard Noonan stepped into a brightly lit hall that reeked of tobacco, perfume, and stale champagne. Old Benny, not yet in his uniform, was sitting at a table across from the entrance and gobbling something, his fork in his fist. In front of him, resting her enormous breasts between the empty glasses, towered the Madam, dolefully watching him eat. The hall still hadn’t been cleaned from last night. When Noonan came in, the Madam immediately turned her broad painted face toward him, at first looking displeased but quickly dissolving into a professional smile. “Ha!” she boomed. “Mr. Noonan himself! Missed the girls?”

Benny continued to gobble; he was as deaf as a post.

“Hello, old lady!” replied Noonan, approaching. “What do I need with girls, when I have a real woman in front of me?”

Benny finally noticed him. His hideous mug, crisscrossed with red and blue scars, contorted with effort into a welcoming smile. “Hello, boss!” he wheezed. “Come in to dry off?”

Noonan smiled in response and waved his hand. He didn’t like talking to Benny; he always had to holler. “Where’s my manager, guys?” he asked.

“In his office,” replied the Madam. “Tomorrow is tax day.”

“Oh, those taxes!” said Noonan. “All right. Madam, fix me my favorite drink, I’ll be right back.”

Silently stepping on the thick synthetic carpet, he walked along the hallway past the curtain-covered stalls—the walls by the stalls were decorated with pictures of various flowers—turned into an unremarkable cul-de-sac, and, without knocking, opened the leather-covered door.

Hamfist Kitty was sitting behind the desk and examining an evil-looking sore on his nose in a mirror. He couldn’t care less that tomorrow was tax day. The surface in front of him held only a jar of mercury ointment and a glass of some see-through liquid. Hamfist Kitty raised his bloodshot eyes at Noonan and leaped up, dropping the mirror. Without saying a word, Noonan lowered himself into the armchair across from him and spent a while silently scrutinizing the rascal and listening as he mumbled something incoherent about the damn rain and his rheumatism. Then Noonan said, “Please lock the door, pal.”

Hamfist, stomping his huge flat feet, ran to the door, turned the key, and came back to the desk. He towered like a hairy mountain over Noonan, staring devotedly at his mouth. Noonan kept examining him through screwed-up eyes. For some reason he suddenly remembered that Hamfist Kitty’s real name was Raphael. The nickname Hamfist came from his monstrous bony fists, bluish red and bare, that protruded from the thick fur covering his arms as if from a pair of sleeves. And he named himself Kitty in complete confidence that this was the traditional name of the great Mongolian kings. Raphael. Well, Raphael, let us begin.

“How are things?” Noonan asked affectionately.

“In perfect order, boss,” Raphael-Hamfist answered hastily.

“Did you patch up the scandal at headquarters?”

“Put down a hundred fifty bucks. Everyone is happy.”

“That’s a hundred fifty from your pocket,” said Noonan. “That was your fault, pal. Should have kept an eye on it.”

Hamfist made a miserable face and spread his huge hands in submission.

“The hardwood floor in the lobby should be replaced,” said Noonan.

“Will do.”

Noonan paused, pursing his lips. “Any swag?” he asked, lowering his voice.

“There’s some,” said Hamfist, also lowering his voice.

“Show me.”

Hamfist darted to the safe, took out a package, placed it on the desk in front of Noonan, and unwrapped it. Noonan poked a finger into the pile of black sparks, picked up a bracelet, examined it from every side, and put it back.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“They don’t bring any,” Hamfist said guiltily.

“‘They don’t bring any,’” repeated Noonan.

He took careful aim and kicked Hamfist’s shin as hard as he could with the toe of his shoe. Hamfist moaned and started to bend over to grab the injured leg but immediately drew himself up and stood at attention. Then Noonan leaped up, as if someone had jabbed him in the ass, kicked aside the armchair, grabbed Hamfist by the collar of his shirt, and went at him, kicking, rolling his eyes, and whispering obscenities. Hamfist, gasping and moaning and rearing his head like a frightened horse, backed away from him until he collapsed onto the couch.

“Working both sides, bastard?” hissed Noonan right into his eyes, which were white with terror. “Burbridge is swimming in swag, and you bring me little beads wrapped in paper?” He turned around and smacked Hamfist in the face, taking care to hit the sore on his nose. “I’ll have you rot in jail! You’ll be living in shit… Eating shit… You’ll curse the day you were born!” He took another hard jab at the sore. “How is Burbridge getting swag? Why do they bring it to him but not to you? Who brings it? Why don’t I know anything? Who are you working for, you hairy pig? Tell me!”

Hamfist opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Noonan let him go, returned to the armchair, and put his feet up on the desk.

“Well?” he said.

Hamfist noisily sucked the blood in through his nose and said, “Really, boss… What’s going on? What swag does the Vulture have? He doesn’t have any swag. Nowadays no one has swag.”

“You’re going to argue with me?” Noonan asked with seeming affection, taking his feet off the desk.

“No, no, boss… I swear,” said Hamfist hastily. “Honest to God! Argue with you? I never even considered it.”

“I’ll get rid of you,” said Noonan gloomily. “Because either you’ve sold out, or you don’t know how to work. What the hell do I need you for, you lazy bum? I could get dozens like you. I need a real man for the job, and all you do is ruin the girls and guzzle beer.”

“Wait a minute, boss,” argued Hamfist, smearing blood around his face. “Why attack me all of a sudden? Let’s try to get this straight.” He gingerly felt the sore with his fingertips. “Burbridge has lots of swag, you say? I don’t know about that. I apologize, of course, but someone’s been pulling your leg. No one has any swag nowadays. It’s only the raw kids that go into the Zone, and they almost never come back… No, boss, I swear someone’s pulling your leg.”

Noonan was watching him out of the corner of his eye. It seemed that Hamfist really didn’t know a thing. Anyway, it wasn’t worth his while to lie—the Vulture didn’t pay well. “Those picnics of his—are they profitable?” he asked.

“The picnics? Not very. He isn’t shoveling it in… But then there’s no profitable work left in town.”

“Where are these picnics held?”

“Where are they held? At various places. At the White Mountain, at the Hot Springs, by the Rainbow Lakes…”

“And who are his clients?”

“His clients?” Hamfist felt his sore again, glanced at his fingers, and spoke confidentially, “Boss, if you’re thinking of getting into that business, I’d advise against it. You can’t compete with the Vulture.”

“Why not?”

“It’s his clients; he has the police—that’s one.” Hamfist was counting on his fingers. “The officers from headquarters—that’s two. Tourists from the Metropole, White Lily, and the Alien—that’s three. And his advertising is good, the locals use him, too. I swear, boss, it wouldn’t be worth it to get involved. And he pays us for the girls—if not that generously.”

“The locals use him, too?”

“Young men, mostly.”

“And what do you do there, at the picnics?”

“What do we do? We go there by bus, see? They already have tents, food, and music set up. Then everyone amuses themselves. The officers mostly enjoy the girls, the tourists troop off to see the Zone—when it’s at the Hot Springs, the Zone is a stone’s throw away, right over the Sulfur Gorge. The Vulture has scattered horse bones over there for them, so they look at them through binoculars.”

“And the locals?”

“The locals? The locals, of course, aren’t interested in that. They amuse themselves.”

“And Burbridge?”

“What about Burbridge? Burbridge is like everyone else.”

“And you?”

“What about me? I’m like everyone else. I make sure no one’s bothering the girls, and… uh… well… Anyway, I’m like everyone else…”

“And how long do these things last?”

“It varies. Sometimes three days, sometimes a whole week.”

“And how much does this pleasure trip cost?” asked Noonan, now thinking about something else entirely.

Hamfist said something, but Noonan didn’t hear him. There it is, my oversight, he thought. A couple of days… A couple of nights. Under these circumstances, it would be simply impossible to keep track of Burbridge, even if you were completely focused on doing so and weren’t busy cavorting with the girls and guzzling beer like my Mongolian king. But I’m still missing something. He’s legless, and there’s a gorge… No, something’s off.

“Which locals come frequently?”

“Locals? As I said—mostly young men. The hoodlums of the town. Like, say, Halevy, Rajba, Zapfa the Chicken, and what’s his name… Zmig. Sometimes the Maltese. A tight-knit crowd. They call it Sunday school. ‘Let’s go to Sunday school,’ they say. They’re mostly in it for the women tourists—that’s easy money for them. Say an old lady from Europe shows up—”

“‘Sunday school’…” Noonan repeated.

A strange thought suddenly occurred to him. School. He got up.

“All right,” he said. “To hell with these picnics. That’s not for us. What you do need to know is that the Vulture has swag—that’s our business, pal. That we simply can’t allow. Keep looking, Hamfist, keep looking, or you’ll be out on your ass. Figure out where he gets the swag and who supplies it to him—then beat him by twenty percent. Got it?”

“Got it, boss,” Hamfist was already standing at attention, devotion on his blood-smeared mug.

“And stop ruining the girls, you animal!” Noonan roared, and left.

Standing by the bar in the hall, he leisurely sipped his aperitif, chatted with the Madam about the decline in morality, and hinted that in the very near future he was planning to expand the establishment. Lowering his voice for effect, he consulted her on what to do about Benny: the guy is getting old, his hearing is almost gone, his reaction time is shot, he can’t manage like before… It was already six o’clock, he was getting hungry, but that same unexpected thought kept boring and twisting through his brain—a strange, incongruous thought that nonetheless explained a lot. But in any case, much had already been explained, the business had been stripped of its irritating and frightening aura of mysticism, and all that remained was chagrin that he didn’t think of this before; but that wasn’t the important thing, the important thing was the thought that kept spinning and twisting through his brain and wouldn’t let him rest.

After he said good-bye to the Madam and shook Benny’s hand, Noonan drove straight to the Borscht. The problem is we don’t notice the years pass, he thought. Screw the years—we don’t notice things change. We know that things change, we’ve been told since childhood that things change, we’ve witnessed things change ourselves many a time, and yet we’re still utterly incapable of noticing the moment that change comes—or we search for change in all the wrong places. A new breed of stalker has appeared—armed with technology. The old stalker was a sullen, dirty man, stubborn as a mule, crawling through the Zone inch by inch on his stomach, earning his keep. The new stalker is a tie-wearing dandy, an engineer, somewhere a mile away from the Zone, a cigarette in his teeth, a cocktail by his elbow—sitting and watching the monitors. A salaried gentleman. A very logical picture. So logical that other possibilities don’t even occur. And yet there are other possibilities—Sunday school, for one.

Suddenly, for no apparent reason, he felt a wave of despair. Everything was useless. Everything was pointless. My God, he thought, we can’t do a thing! We can’t stop it, we can’t slow it down! No force in the world could contain this blight, he thought in horror. It’s not because we do bad work. And it’s not because they are more clever and cunning than we are. The world is just like that. Man is like that. If it wasn’t the Visit, it would have been something else. Pigs can always find mud.

The Borscht was brightly lit and full of delicious smells. The Borscht had also changed—no more boozing and no more merrymaking. Gutalin didn’t come here anymore, turned up his nose, and Redrick Schuhart had probably stuck his freckled mug inside, scowled, and went off. Ernest was still in jail; his old lady was enjoying being in charge: there was a steady respectable clientele, the whole Institute came here for lunch, as did the senior officers. The booths were cozy, the food was tasty, the prices were moderate, the beer was always fresh. A good old-fashioned pub.

Noonan saw Valentine Pillman sitting in one of the booths. The Nobel laureate was drinking coffee and reading a magazine folded in half. Noonan approached. “May I join you?” he asked.

Valentine raised his dark glasses at him. “Ah,” he said. “Feel free.”

“One second, let me wash my hands,” said Noonan, remembering the sore.

He was well known here. When he came back and sat down across from Valentine, there was already a small grill with sizzling barbecue and a tall stein of beer on the table—neither warm nor cold, just the way he liked it. Valentine put the magazine down and took a sip of coffee.

“Listen, Valentine,” said Noonan, cutting a piece of meat and dipping it in the sauce. “How do you think it’s all going to end?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Visit. Zones, stalkers, military-industrial complexes—the whole stinking mess. How could it all end?”

For a long time, Valentine stared at him through his opaque black lenses. Then he lit up a cigarette and said, “For whom? Be more specific.”

“Well, say, for humanity as a whole.”

“That depends on our luck,” said Valentine. “We now know that for humanity as a whole, the Visit has largely passed without a trace. For humanity everything passes without a trace. Of course, it’s possible that by randomly pulling chestnuts out of this fire, we’ll eventually stumble on something that will make life on Earth completely unbearable. That would be bad luck. But you have to admit, that’s a danger humanity has always faced.” He waved away the cigarette smoke and smiled wryly. “You see, I’ve long since become unused to discussing humanity as a whole. Humanity as a whole is too stable a system, nothing upsets it.”

“You think so?” said Noonan with disappointment. “Well, that may be…”

“Tell me the truth, Richard,” said Valentine, obviously amusing himself. “What changed for you, a businessman, after the Visit? So you’ve learned that the universe contains at least one intelligent species other than man. So what?”

“How can I put it?” mumbled Richard. He was already sorry that he started the subject. There was nothing to say here. “What changed for me? For example, for many years now I’ve been feeling a bit uneasy, apprehensive. All right, so they came and left immediately. And what if they come back and decide to stay? For me, a businessman, these aren’t idle questions, you know: who they are, how they live, what they need. In the most primitive case, I’m forced to consider how to modify my product. I have to be ready. And what if I turn out to be completely superfluous in their society?” He became more animated. “What if we’re all superfluous? Listen, Valentine, since we’re on the subject, are there answers to these questions? Who they are, what they wanted, if they’ll come back…”

“There are answers,” said Valentine with an ironic smile. “Lots of them, pick any you like.”

“And what do you think?”

“To be honest, I’ve never let myself seriously consider it. For me, the Visit is first and foremost a unique event that could potentially allow us to skip a few rungs in the ladder of progress. Like a trip into the future of technology. Say, like Isaac Newton finding a modern microwave emitter in his laboratory.”

“Newton wouldn’t have understood a thing.”

“You’d be surprised! Newton was a very smart man.”

“Oh yeah? Anyway, never mind Newton. What do you actually think about the Visit? Even if not seriously.”

“Fine, I’ll tell you. But I have to warn you, Richard, that your question falls under the umbrella of a pseudoscience called xenology. Xenology is an unnatural mixture of science fiction and formal logic. At its core is a flawed assumption—that an alien race would be psychologically human.”

“Why flawed?” asked Noonan.

“Because biologists have already been burned attempting to apply human psychology to animals. Earth animals, I note.”

“Just a second,” said Noonan. “That’s totally different. We’re talking about the psychology of intelligent beings.”

“True. And that would be just fine, if we knew what intelligence was.”

“And we don’t?” asked Noonan in surprise.

“Believe it or not, we don’t. We usually proceed from a trivial definition: intelligence is the attribute of man that separates his activity from that of the animals. It’s a kind of attempt to distinguish the master from his dog, who seems to understand everything but can’t speak. However, this trivial definition does lead to wittier ones. They are based on depressing observations of the aforementioned human activity. For example: intelligence is the ability of a living creature to perform pointless or unnatural acts.”

“Yes, that’s us,” agreed Noonan.

“Unfortunately. Or here’s a definition-hypothesis. Intelligence is a complex instinct which hasn’t yet fully matured. The idea is that instinctive activity is always natural and useful. A million years will pass, the instinct will mature, and we will cease making the mistakes which are probably an integral part of intelligence. And then, if anything in the universe changes, we will happily become extinct—again, precisely because we’ve lost the art of making mistakes, that is, trying various things not prescribed by a rigid code.”

“Somehow this all sounds so… demeaning.”

“All right, then here’s another definition—a very lofty and noble one. Intelligence is the ability to harness the powers of the surrounding world without destroying the said world.”

Noonan grimaced and shook his head. “No,” he said. “That’s a bit much… That’s not us. Well, how about the idea that humans, unlike animals, have an overpowering need for knowledge? I’ve read that somewhere.”

“So have I,” said Valentine. “But the issue is that man, at least the average man, can easily overcome this need. In my opinion, the need doesn’t exist at all. There’s a need to understand, but that doesn’t require knowledge. The God hypothesis, for example, allows you to have an unparalleled understanding of absolutely everything while knowing absolutely nothing… Give a man a highly simplified model of the world and interpret every event on the basis of this simple model. This approach requires no knowledge. A few rote formulas, plus some so-called intuition, some so-called practical acumen, and some so-called common sense.”

“Wait,” said Noonan. He finished his beer and banged the empty stein down on the table. “Don’t get off track. Let’s put it this way. A man meets an alien. How does each figure out that the other is intelligent?”

“No idea,” Valentine said merrily. “All I’ve read on the subject reduces to a vicious circle. If they are capable of contact, then they are intelligent. And conversely, if they are intelligent, then they are capable of contact. And in general: if an alien creature has the honor of being psychologically human, then it’s intelligent. That’s how it is, Richard. Read Vonnegut?”

“Damn it,” said Noonan. “And here I thought you’d sorted everything out.”

“Even a monkey can sort things,” observed Valentine.

“No, wait,” said Noonan. For some reason, he felt cheated. “But if you don’t even know such simple things… All right, never mind intelligence. Looks like there’s no making heads or tails of it. But about the Visit? What do you think about the Visit?”

“Certainly,” said Valentine. “Imagine a picnic—”

Noonan jumped. “What did you say?”

“A picnic. Imagine: a forest, a country road, a meadow. A car pulls off the road into the meadow and unloads young men, bottles, picnic baskets, girls, transistor radios, cameras… A fire is lit, tents are pitched, music is played. And in the morning they leave. The animals, birds, and insects that were watching the whole night in horror crawl out of their shelters. And what do they see? An oil spill, a gasoline puddle, old spark plugs and oil filters strewn about… Scattered rags, burntout bulbs, someone has dropped a monkey wrench. The wheels have tracked mud from some godforsaken swamp… and, of course, there are the remains of the campfire, apple cores, candy wrappers, tins, bottles, someone’s handkerchief, someone’s penknife, old ragged newspapers, coins, wilted flowers from another meadow…”

“I get it,” said Noonan. “A roadside picnic.”

“Exactly. A picnic by the side of some space road. And you ask me whether they’ll come back…”

“Let me have a smoke,” said Noonan. “Damn your pseudoscience! Somehow this isn’t at all how I envisioned it.”

“That’s your right,” observed Valentine.

“What, you mean they never even noticed us?”

“Why?”

“Or at least they paid no attention.”

“I wouldn’t get too disappointed if I were you,” advised Valentine.

Noonan took a drag, coughed, and threw the cigarette down. “All the same,” he said stubbornly. “It couldn’t be… Damn you scientists! Where do you get this disdain for man? Why do you constantly need to put him down?”

“Wait,” said Valentine. “Listen. ‘You ask: what makes man great?’” he quoted. “‘Is it that he re-created nature? That he harnessed forces of almost-cosmic proportions? That in a brief time he has conquered the planet and opened a window onto the universe? No! It is that despite all this, he has survived, and intends to continue doing so.’”

There was silence. Noonan was thinking. “Maybe,” he said uncertainly. “Of course, from that point of view…”

“Don’t get so upset,” Valentine said kindly. “The picnic is only my hypothesis. And not even a hypothesis, really, but an impression. So-called serious xenologists try to justify interpretations that are much more respectable and flattering to human vanity. For example, that the Visit hasn’t happened yet, that the real Visit is yet to come. Some higher intelligence came to Earth and left us containers with samples of their material culture. They expect us to study these samples and make a technological leap, enabling us to send back a signal indicating we’re truly ready for contact. How’s that?”

“That’s much better,” said Noonan. “I see that even among the scientists there are decent men.”

“Or here’s another one. The Visit did take place, but it is by no means over. We’re actually in contact as we speak, we just don’t know it. The aliens are holed up in the Zones and are carefully studying us, simultaneously preparing us for the ‘time of cruel miracles.’”

“Now that I understand!” said Noonan. “At least it explains the mysterious bustle in the ruins of the factory. By the way, your picnic doesn’t account for that.”

“Why not?” disagreed Valentine. “Some little girl might have dropped her favorite windup doll.”

“Now cut that out,” said Noonan emphatically. “Some doll—the ground is shaking. Then again, of course, it could be a doll… Want some beer? Rosalie! Come here, old lady! Two beers for the xenologists! It really is a pleasure to talk to you,” he told Valentine. “A real brain cleansing—like someone poured Epsom salts under my skull. Otherwise, you work and work, but you never think about why or what for, grapple with what might happen, try to lighten your load…”

They brought the beer. Noonan took a sip and, looking over the foam, saw Valentine with an expression of fastidious skepticism, examining his stein.

“What, you don’t like it?” he asked, licking his lips.

“To be honest, I don’t drink,” said Valentine with hesitation.

“Oh yeah?” said Noonan in astonishment.

“Damn it!” said Valentine. “There has to be one nondrinker in the world.” He decisively pushed the stein away. “Order me a cognac, then,” he said.

“Rosalie!” Noonan shouted immediately, now completely mellow.

When they brought the cognac, Noonan said, “Still, it’s not right. I won’t even mention your picnic—that’s a complete disgrace—but even accepting the hypothesis that this is, say, a prelude to contact, it’s still no good. Bracelets, empties—those I could understand. But why the slime? Or the bug traps or that disgusting fuzz?”

“Excuse me,” said Valentine, choosing a slice of lemon. “I don’t exactly understand your terminology. What traps?”

Noonan laughed. “That’s folklore,” he explained. “Stalkers’ jargon. Bug traps—those are the areas of increased gravity.”

“Oh, the graviconcentrates… Directed gravity. Now that’s something I would enjoy discussing, but you wouldn’t understand a thing.”

“Why not? I’m an engineer, after all.”

“Because I don’t understand a thing myself. I have a system of equations, but I haven’t a notion about how to interpret it. And the slime—that’s probably the colloidal gas?”

“The very same. You heard about the catastrophe in the Carrigan Labs?”

“I’ve heard something,” Valentine replied reluctantly.

“Those idiots placed a porcelain container with the slime into a special, maximally insulated chamber. That is, they thought that it was maximally insulated, but when they opened the container with the mechanical arm, the slime went through the metal and plastic like water through a sieve, escaped, and turned everything it touched into the same slime. The tally: thirty-five dead, more than a hundred injured, and the entire laboratory is completely unusable. Have you ever been there? It’s a gorgeous building! And now slime has seeped into the basement and lower floors… That’s a prelude to contact for you.”

Valentine made a face. “Yes, I know all that,” he said. “But you have to admit, Richard, that the aliens had nothing to do with this. How could they have known about the existence of military-industrial complexes?”

“Well, they should have known!” said Noonan didactically.

“And here’s what they’d say in reply: You should have long since gotten rid of military-industrial complexes.”

“That’s fair,” agreed Noonan. “Maybe that’s what they should have worked on, if they are so powerful.”

“So you’re suggesting interference with the internal affairs of mankind?”

“Hmm,” said Noonan. “That, of course, could lead us all sorts of places. Forget about it. Let’s return to the beginning of the conversation. How is it all going to end? Say, take you scientists. Are you hoping to acquire something fundamental from the Zone, something that could really revolutionize our science, technology, way of life?”

Valentine finished his drink and shrugged his shoulders. “You’re talking to the wrong man, Richard. I don’t like empty fantasies. When it comes to such a serious subject, I prefer cautious skepticism. Judging from what we’ve already acquired, there is a whole spectrum of possibilities, and nothing definite can be said.”

“Rosalie, more cognac!” yelled Noonan. “Well, all right, let’s try another tack. What, in your opinion, have we already acquired?”

“Amusingly enough, relatively little. We’ve found many marvels. In a number of cases, we’ve even learned how to adapt these marvels to our needs. We’ve even gotten used to them. A lab monkey presses a red button and gets a banana, presses a white button and gets an orange, but has no idea how to obtain bananas or oranges without buttons. Nor does it understand the relationship between buttons and oranges and bananas. Take, say, the spacells. We’ve learned to apply them. We’ve even discovered conditions under which they multiply by division. But we have yet to create a single spacell, have no idea how they work, and, as far as I can tell, won’t figure it out anytime soon. Here’s what I’d say. There are a number of objects for which we have found applications. We use them, although almost certainly not in the ways that the aliens intended. I’m absolutely convinced that in the vast majority of cases we’re using sledgehammers to crack nuts. Nevertheless, some things we do apply: spacells, bracelets that stimulate vital processes… all sorts of quasibiological masses, which caused such a revolution in medicine… We’ve gained new tranquilizers, new mineral fertilizers, we’ve revolutionized astronomy. In any case, why am I listing them? You know it all better than I do—I see you wear a bracelet yourself. Let us call this group of objects useful. You could say that, to a certain extent, these objects have benefited humanity, although we can never forget that in our Euclidean world every stick has two ends…”

“Undesirable applications?” inserted Noonan.

“Exactly. For example, applications of spacells in the defense industry… Let’s not get off track. The behavior of each useful object has been more or less studied and more or less explained. Right now we’re held back by technology, but in fifty years or so we will learn how to manufacture these sledgehammers ourselves, and then we’ll crack nuts with them to our hearts’ content. The story’s more complicated with another group of objects—more complicated precisely because we can’t find any application for them, and yet their properties, given our current theories, are completely inexplicable. For example, take the magnetic traps of various types. We know they are magnetic traps, Panov gave a very witty proof of that. But we don’t know where the generator of such a strong magnetic field could be nor understand the reason for its amazing stability; we don’t understand a thing. We can only make up fantastic conjectures about properties of space which we’ve never even suspected before. Or the K-twenty-three… What do you call those pretty black beads that are used for jewelry?”

“Black sparks,” said Noonan.

“Right, right, black sparks. Good name. Well, you know their properties. If you shine a light at such a bead, the light will be emitted after a pause, and the length of the pause depends on the weight of the ball, its size, and a number of other parameters, while the frequency of the emitted light is always less than its original frequency. What does this mean? Why? There’s an insane idea that these black sparks are actually vast expanses of space—space with different properties from our own, which curled up into this form under the influence of our space…” Valentine took out a cigarette and lit it. “In short, the objects in this group are currently completely useless for human purposes, yet from a purely scientific point of view they have fundamental significance. These are miraculously received answers to questions we don’t yet know how to pose. The aforementioned Sir Isaac mightn’t have made sense of the microwave emitter, but he would have at any rate realized that such a thing was possible, and that would have had a very strong effect on his scientific worldview. I won’t get into details, but the existence of such objects as the magnetic traps, the K-twenty-three, and the white ring instantly disproved a number of recently thriving theories and gave rise to some entirely new ideas. And then there’s also a third group…”

“Yes,” said Noonan. “Hell slime and other shit.”

“No, no. All those belong either to the first or the second group. I meant objects about which we either know nothing or have only hearsay information, objects which we’ve never held in our hands. Ones that were carried off by stalkers from under our noses—sold to God knows who, hidden. The ones they don’t talk about. The legends and semilegends: the wish machine, Dick the Tramp, happy ghosts…”

“Wait, wait,” said Noonan. “What’s all this? I understand the wish machine.”

Valentine laughed. “You see, we also have our work jargon. Dick the Tramp—that’s the same hypothetical windup doll which is causing havoc in the ruins of the factory. And happy ghosts are a kind of dangerous turbulence that can happen in certain regions of the Zone.”

“First time I’ve heard of them,” said Noonan.

“You see, Richard,” said Valentine, “we’ve been digging through the Zone for two decades, but we don’t even know a thousandth part of what it contains. And if you count the Zone’s effect on man… By the way, we’re going to have to add another, fourth group to our classification. Not of objects, but of effects. This group has been outrageously badly studied, even though, in my opinion, we’ve gathered more than enough data. And you know, Richard, I’m a physicist and therefore a skeptic. But sometimes even I get goose bumps when I think about this data.”

“Living corpses…” muttered Noonan.

“What? Oh… No, that’s mysterious, but nothing more. How can I put it? It’s conceivable, maybe. But when, for no reason at all, a person becomes surrounded by extraphysical, extrabiological phenomena—”

“Oh, you mean the emigrants?”

“Exactly. You know, statistics is a very precise science, despite the fact that it deals with random variables. And furthermore, it’s a very eloquent science, very visual…”

Valentine had apparently become tipsy. He was speaking louder, his cheeks had turned rosy, and the eyebrows above the dark glasses had risen high in his forehead, wrinkling his brow. “Rosalie!” he barked. “More cognac! A large shot!”

“I like nondrinkers,” said Noonan with respect.

“Don’t get distracted!” said Valentine strictly. “Listen to what I’m telling you. It’s very strange.” He picked up his glass, drank off half in one gulp, and continued, “We don’t know what happened to the poor people of Harmont at the very moment of the Visit. But now one of them has decided to emigrate. Some ordinary resident. A barber. The son of a barber and the grandson of a barber. He moves to, say, Detroit. Opens a barbershop, and all hell breaks loose. More than ninety percent of his clients die in the course of a year; they die in car accidents, fall out of windows, are cut down by gangsters and hooligans, drown in shallow places, and so on and so forth. Furthermore. The number of municipal disasters in Detroit increases sharply. The number of gas pump explosions jumps by a factor of two. The number of fires caused by faulty wiring jumps by a factor of three and a half. The number of car accidents jumps by a factor of three. The number of deaths from flu epidemics jumps by a factor of two. Furthermore. The number of natural disasters in Detroit and its environs also increases. Tornadoes and typhoons, the likes of which haven’t been seen in the area since the 1700s, make an appearance. The heavens open, and Lake Ontario or Michigan, or wherever Detroit is, bursts its banks. Well, and more to that effect. And the same cataclysms happen in any town, any region, where an emigrant from the neighborhood of a Zone settles down, and the number of cataclysms is directly proportional to the number of emigrants that settle in that particular place. And note that this effect is only observed with emigrants who lived through the Visit. Those who were born after the Visit have no impact on the accident statistics. You’ve lived in Harmont for ten years, but you moved here after the Visit, and you could safely move to the Vatican itself. How do we explain this? What do we have to give up—statistics? Or common sense?” Valentine grabbed the shot glass and drained it in one gulp.

Richard Noonan scratched behind his ear. “Hmm,” he said. “I’ve actually heard a lot about these things, but frankly, I’ve always assumed this was all, to put it mildly, a bit exaggerated. Someone just needed a pretext for banning emigration.”

Valentine smiled bitterly. “That’s quite the pretext! Who would believe this lunacy? No, they’d make up an epidemic, a danger of spreading subversive rumors, anything but this!” He put his elbows on the table and looked unhappy, burying his face in his hands.

“I do sympathize,” said Noonan. “You’re right, from the point of view of our mighty positivist science—”

“Or, say, the mutations caused by the Zone,” interrupted Valentine. He took off his glasses and stared at Noonan with nearsighted dark eyes. “All people in contact with the Zone for a sufficiently long time undergo changes—both in phenotype and in genotype. You know what stalkers’ children are like, you know what happens with stalkers themselves. Why? What causes the mutations? There’s no radiation in the Zone. The chemical structure of the air and soil in the Zone, though peculiar, poses no mutation risk. What am I supposed to do under these circumstances—start to believe in witchcraft? In the evil eye? Listen, Richard, let’s order another round. I’ve really gotten a taste for it, damn it…”

Richard Noonan, smirking, ordered another shot of cognac for the laureate and another beer for himself. Then he said, “All right. I am, of course, sympathetic to your turmoil. But to be honest, I personally find the reanimated corpses much more disturbing than your statistical data. Especially since I’ve never seen the data, but the corpses I’ve seen, and smelled them, too.”

Valentine gave a careless wave. “Oh, you and your corpses…” he said. “Listen, Richard, aren’t you ashamed of yourself? After all, you’re an educated man. Do you really not see that from the perspective of fundamental principles, these corpses of yours are neither more nor less astonishing than the perpetual batteries? It’s just that the spacells violate the first principle of thermodynamics, and the corpses, the second; that’s the only difference. In some sense, we’re all cavemen—we can’t imagine anything more frightening than a ghost or a vampire. But the violation of the principle of causality—that’s actually much scarier than a whole herd of ghosts… or Rubinstein’s monsters… or is that Wallenstein?”

“Frankenstein.”

“Yes, of course. Mrs. Shelley. The poet’s wife. Or daughter.” He suddenly laughed. “These corpses of yours do have one curious property—autonomous viability. For example, you can cut off their leg, and the leg will keep walking. Well, not actually walking but, in any case, living. Separately. Without any physiological salt solutions. Anyway, the Institute recently had a delivery of one of these… unclaimed ones. So they prepared him. Boyd’s lab assistant told me about it. They cut off his right hand for some experiments, came in the next morning, and saw—it’s giving them the finger!” Valentine laughed uproariously. “Hmm? And it’s still at it! It just keeps making a fist, then flipping them off. What do you figure it’s trying to say?”

“I’d say the gesture is pretty transparent. Isn’t it time for us go home, Valentine?” said Noonan, looking at his watch. “I have another important errand to run.”

“All right,” Valentine agreed enthusiastically, vainly attempting to stick his face into the frame of his glasses. “Ugh, Richard, you’ve really gotten me drunk…” He picked up his glasses with both hands and carefully hoisted them in place. “You drove?”

“Yes, I’ll drop you off.”

They paid and headed toward the exit. Valentine held himself even straighter than usual and kept smacking his temple with his finger—greeting familiar lab assistants, who were watching one of the leading lights of world science with curiosity and wonder. Right by the exit, greeting the grinning doorman, he knocked off his glasses, and all three of them quickly rushed to catch them.

“Ugh, Richard,” Valentine kept repeating, climbing into the Peugeot. “You’ve gotten me shame-less-ly drunk. Not right, damn it. Awkward. I have an experiment tomorrow. You know, it’s curious…”

And he launched into a description of the next day’s experiment, constantly getting sidetracked by jokes and repeating, “Got me drunk… what a thing! Totally wasted…” Noonan dropped him off in the science district, having decisively put down the laureate’s sudden desire to top things off (“What damn experiment? You know what I’m going to do with your experiment? I’m going to postpone it!”) and handed him over to his wife, who, upon observing her husband’s condition, became highly indignant.

“Guests?” rumbled the husband. “Who? Ah, Professor Boyd? Excellent! Now we’ll hit the bottle. No more shots, damn it—we’ll drink by the cup. Richard! Where are you, Richard?”

Noonan heard this already running down the stairs. So they are scared, too, he thought, again getting into his Peugeot. Scared, the eggheads. And maybe that’s how it should be. They should be even more scared than the rest of us ordinary folks put together. Because we merely don’t understand a thing, but they at least understand how much they don’t understand. They gaze into this bottomless pit and know that they will inevitably have to climb down—their hearts are racing, but they’ll have to do it—except they don’t know how or what awaits them at the bottom or, most important, whether they’ll be able to get back out. Meanwhile, we sinners look the other way, so to speak… Listen, maybe that’s how it should be? Let things take their course, and we’ll muddle through somehow. He was right about that: mankind’s most impressive achievement is that it has survived and intends to continue doing so. Still, I hope you go to hell, he told the aliens. You couldn’t have had your picnic somewhere else. On the moon, say. Or on Mars. You are just callous assholes like the rest of them, even if you have learned to curl up space. Had to have a picnic here, you see. A picnic…

How can I best deal with my picnics, he thought, slowly navigating the Peugeot along the brightly lit streets. What would be the most clever way to go about it? Using the principle of least action. Like in mechanics. What’s the damn point of my engineering degree if I can’t even figure out a cunning way to catch that legless bastard…

He parked the car in front of Redrick Schuhart’s building and sat behind the wheel for a bit, thinking about how to conduct the conversation. He took out the spacell, climbed out of the car, and only then noticed that the building looked abandoned. Almost all the windows were dark, and there was no one in the park—even the lights there weren’t lit. That reminded him of what he was about to see, and he shuddered uncomfortably. It even crossed his mind that it might make sense to call Redrick up and ask him to meet in the car or in some quiet bar, but he chased the thought away. For a number of reasons. Besides, he told himself, let me not become like those pitiful scum who have fled this place like rats from a sinking ship.

He entered the building and slowly walked up the long-unswept stairs. All around him was a vacant silence. Most of the doors on the landings were ajar or even open wide—the dark entryways beyond them gave off a stale odor of dampness and dust. He stopped in front of the door to Redrick’s apartment, smoothed down the hair behind his ears, sighed deeply, and rang the doorbell. For a while there was no sound behind the door, then the floorboards squeaked, the lock clicked, and the door softly opened. He never did hear footsteps.

In the doorway stood the Monkey, Redrick Schuhart’s daughter. Bright light fell from the foyer into the dimly lit landing, and for a second Noonan only saw the girl’s dark silhouette and thought how much she had grown in the past few months. But then she stepped farther back into the apartment, and he saw her face. His mouth immediately became dry.

“Hello, Maria,” he said, trying to speak as gently as possible. “How are you, Monkey?”

She didn’t reply. She stayed quiet and silently backed up toward the door of the living room, glaring at him from beneath her brows. It looked like she didn’t recognize him. But then, to be honest, he didn’t recognize her either. The Zone, he thought. Shit.

“Who’s there?” asked Guta, peering out of the kitchen. “My God, Dick! Where have you been hiding? You know, Redrick came back!”

She hurried toward him, wiping her hands on a towel thrown over her shoulder—the same good-looking, strong, energetic woman, except she seemed more haggard somehow: her face had become drawn, and her eyes were… feverish, maybe?

He kissed her cheek, handed her his raincoat and hat, and said, “I’ve heard, I’ve heard. Just couldn’t pick a time to drop by. Is he home?”

“Yeah,” said Guta. “There’s someone over. He’ll probably leave soon, they’ve been in there awhile… Come in, Dick.”

He took a few steps along the hallway and stopped in the living room doorway. The old man was sitting behind the table. Alone. Motionless and listing slightly to one side. The pink light from the lamp shade fell on the dark, wide face—as if carved from old wood—on the sunken lipless mouth, and on the fixed vacant eyes. And immediately Noonan sensed the smell. He knew that it was just a freak of the imagination, that the smell only lasted the first few days and then disappeared without a trace, but Richard Noonan could sense it as if with his memory—a damp, heavy smell of fresh earth.

“Why don’t we go to the kitchen,” Guta said hastily. “I’m cooking dinner; we can talk at the same time.”

“Of course,” Noonan said brightly. “Haven’t seen each other in ages! Do you still remember what I like to drink before dinner?”

They went to the kitchen, Guta immediately opened the fridge, and Noonan sat down at the table and looked around. As usual, everything in here was tidy, everything sparkled, and there was steam rising from the pots. The stove was a new electric one, which meant there was money in the house. “Well, how is he?”

“Same as always,” answered Guta. “He lost weight in jail, but he’s already gained it back.”

“Redheaded?”

“I’ll say!”

“Mean?”

“Of course! He’ll take that to the grave.”

Guta put a Bloody Mary in front of him—a clear layer of Russian vodka seemed to be suspended above a layer of tomato juice.

“Too much?” she asked.

“Just the right amount.” Noonan gathered air into his lungs and, screwing up his eyes, poured the mixture into his mouth. He remembered that this was basically the first real drink he’d had today. “That’s much better,” he said. “Now life is good.”

“Everything OK with you?” asked Guta. “Why haven’t you come by in so long?”

“I’ve been damned busy,” said Noonan. “Every week I was planning to drop by or at least call, but first there was the trip to Rexopolis, then I had to deal with a scandal, then they told me ‘Redrick came back’—all right, I think, why get in the way… Anyway, Guta, I’ve been run off my feet. Sometimes I ask myself, Why the hell are we always in such a whirl? For the money? But why in the world do we need money, if all we ever do is keep working?”

Guta clanged the pot lids, took a pack of cigarettes from the shelf, and sat across from Noonan. Her eyes were lowered. Noonan quickly snatched out a lighter and lit her cigarette, and for the second time in his life saw her hands shake—like that time when Redrick had just been convicted, and Noonan came by to bring her money: at first, she was completely destitute, and the assholes in the building refused to lend her a cent. Eventually, the money did appear and, in all likelihood, a considerable sum, and Noonan could guess where it was from, but he continued to drop by—bringing the Monkey toys and candy, spending whole evenings drinking coffee with Guta, helping her plan Redrick’s successful future life. Finally, getting his fill of her stories, he would go to the neighbors and try to somehow reason with them, explaining, cajoling, then finally losing his patience, threatening: “You know, Red will come back, he’ll break every bone in your body…” Nothing helped.

“How’s your girlfriend?” asked Guta.

“Who?”

“You know, the one you brought that time… The blonde.”

“You thought that was my girlfriend? That was my stenographer. She got married and quit.”

“You should get married, Dick,” said Guta. “Want me to find you a wife?”

Noonan almost replied, as usual, I’m waiting for the Monkey but stopped himself in time. It wouldn’t have sounded right. “I need a stenographer, not a wife,” he grumbled. “You should leave your redheaded devil and come work for me as a stenographer. I remember you were an excellent stenographer. Old Harris still remembers you.”

“I’m sure he does,” she said. “I had a hell of a time fending him off.”

“Is that how it was?” Noonan pretended to be surprised. “That Harris!”

“My God!” said Guta. “He wouldn’t leave me alone! I was just afraid that Red would find out.”

The Monkey silently appeared—she materialized in the doorway, looked at the pots, looked at Richard, then approached her mother and leaned against her, turning away her face.

“Well, Monkey,” Richard Noonan said heartily. “Want a chocolate?”

He dug into his vest pocket, took out a little chocolate car in a clear packet, and offered it to the girl. She didn’t move. Guta took the chocolate and put it on the table. Her lips suddenly turned white.

“Yes, Guta,” Noonan said, still cheery, “I’m planning to move, you know. I’m sick of the hotel. First of all, it really is too far from the Institute—”

“She almost doesn’t understand anything anymore,” said Guta softly, and he cut himself off, picked up a glass with both hands, and started pointlessly spinning it in his fingers. “I see that you don’t ask how we are,” she continued, “and you’re right not to. Except you’re an old friend, Dick, we have no secrets from you. Not that we could keep it a secret!”

“Have you seen a doctor?” asked Noonan, without raising his eyes.

“Yes. They can’t do a thing. And one of them said…”

She fell silent. He was silent, too. There was nothing to say here, and he didn’t want to think about it, but he was unexpectedly struck by an awful thought: It’s an invasion. Not a picnic, not a plea for contact—an invasion. They can’t change us, but they infiltrate the bodies of our children and change them in their image. He shivered, but then he immediately remembered that he had already read something like that, some paperback with a bright glossy cover, and the memory made him feel better. People imagined all sorts of things. In reality, nothing was ever the way people imagined.

“And one of them said she’s no longer human,” continued Guta.

“Nonsense,” Noonan said hollowly. “You should see a real specialist. See James Catterfield. Want me to talk to him? I’ll arrange an appointment…”

“You mean the Butcher?” She gave a nervous laugh. “Thanks, Dick, but it’s all right. He’s the one who said that. Must be fate.”

When Noonan dared to look up again, the Monkey was already gone, and Guta was sitting motionless, her mouth half open and her eyes empty, the cigarette in her fingers growing a long crooked column of gray ash. He pushed his glass toward her and said, “Make me another, dear. And make one for yourself. And we’ll drink.”

She flicked off the ashes, looked around for a place to throw out the butt, and threw it in the sink. “What’s it all for?” she asked. “That’s what I don’t understand! We aren’t the worst people in town…”

Noonan thought that she was going to cry, but she didn’t—she opened the fridge, took out the vodka and the juice, and took a second glass off the shelf.

“All the same, you shouldn’t despair,” said Noonan. “There’s nothing in the world that can’t be fixed. And believe me, Guta, I have connections. Everything I can do, I will…”

Right now, he himself believed in what he was saying, and he was already going through names, clinics, and cities in his mind, and it even seemed to him that he had heard something somewhere about a case like this, and everything turned out OK, he just needed to figure out where it happened and who the doctor was. But then he remembered why he came here and remembered General Lemchen, and he recalled why he had befriended Guta, and he no longer wanted to think about anything at all—so he made himself comfortable, relaxed, and waited for his drink.

At this point, he heard shuffling footsteps and tapping in the hall and the Vulture Burbridge’s repulsive—especially under the circumstances—nasal voice. “Hey, Red! Your old lady, I see, has a visitor—there’s his hat. If I were you, I wouldn’t let that slide.”

And Redrick’s voice: “Take your prostheses, Vulture. And bite your tongue. Here’s the door, don’t forget to leave, it’s time for my supper.”

And Burbridge: “Jesus, I can’t even make a joke!”

And Redrick: “You and I are done joking. Period. Go on, go on, don’t hold things up!”

The lock clicked open, and the voices became fainter—apparently, they had both gone out onto the landing. Burbridge said something in an undertone, and Redrick answered, “That’s it, that’s it, we’re done!” Then Burbridge grumbled something again, and Redrick replied in a harsh tone, “I said that’s it!” The door banged, he heard quick footsteps in the hallway, and Redrick Schuhart appeared in the kitchen doorway. Noonan rose to greet him, and they firmly shook hands.

“I figured it must be you,” said Redrick, looking Noonan over with quick green eyes. “Ooh, you’ve gotten fat, fatso! Growing your ass in bars… Aha! I see you guys have been enjoying yourselves! Guta, old lady, make me one, too, I gotta catch up.”

“We haven’t even started yet,” said Noonan. “We were just going to. As if we could hope to get ahead of you!”

Redrick gave a sharp laugh and punched Noonan in the shoulder. “We’ll see who’s catching up and who’s getting ahead. Man, I’ve been dry for two years, in order to catch up I’d have to guzzle a vat… Let’s go, let’s go, why are we sitting in the kitchen! Guta, bring us supper.”

He dived into the fridge and stood up again, holding two bottles in each hand, with various labels.

“We’ll have a party!” he announced. “In honor of our best friend, Richard Noonan, who doesn’t abandon those in need! Though there’s nothing in it for him. Ah, Gutalin isn’t here, too bad.”

“Give him a call,” suggested Noonan.

Redrick shook his flaming red head. “They haven’t laid phone lines to where he is yet. All right, let’s go, let’s go…”

He entered the living room first and banged the bottles down on the table.

“We’re having a party, Dad!” he told the motionless old man. “This is Richard Noonan, our friend! Dick, this is my dad, Schuhart the elder.”

Richard Noonan, having mentally gathered himself into an impenetrable lump, stretched his mouth to his ears, shook his hand in the air, and said to the corpse, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Schuhart! How are you? You know, Red, we’ve already met,” he told Schuhart the younger, who was digging through the bar. “We saw each other once, only in passing, however…”

“Have a seat,” said Redrick, nodding at a chair across from the old man. “And if you talk to him, speak louder—he can’t hear a damn thing.” He put down the glasses, quickly opened the bottles, and told Noonan, “Go ahead and pour. Give Dad a little, just a nip.”

Noonan poured in a leisurely fashion. The old man was sitting in the same position, staring at the wall. And he showed no reaction at all when Noonan pushed the glass toward him. Noonan had already adjusted to the new situation. This was a game, a terrible and pitiful game. The game was Redrick’s, and he was playing along, the same way that his whole life he had played along with the games of others—games that were terrible and pitiful and shameful and wild, and far more dangerous than this one. Redrick raised his glass and said, “Well, shall we begin?” and Noonan glanced at the old man in a completely natural manner, and Redrick impatiently clinked his glass against Noonan’s and said, “Let’s go, let’s go, don’t worry about him, he won’t let it get away,” so Noonan gave a completely natural nod, and they had a drink.

Redrick grunted and, eyes shining, went on in that same excited, slightly artificial tone: “That’s it, man! No more jail for me. If you only knew, my friend, how good it is to be home! I’ve got money, I have my eye on a nice little cottage, with a garden, no worse than the Vulture’s. You know, I was planning to emigrate, I’d already decided that in jail. Why in the world am I staying in this lousy town? Let them all go to hell, I think. I get back—hello, they’ve banned emigration! What, did we all become contagious in the last two years?”

He talked and talked while Noonan nodded, sipped his whiskey, interjected sympathetic curses and rhetorical questions, then started grilling him about the cottage—what is it like, how much does it cost—and he and Redrick argued. Noonan was proving that the cottage was expensive and inconveniently located, he took out his notebook and flipped through it, naming addresses of abandoned cottages that could be bought for a song, and the repairs wouldn’t cost much at all, especially if they applied to emigrate, got denied by the authorities, and demanded compensation.

“I see you’ve even gotten into real estate,” said Redrick.

“I do a little bit of everything,” answered Noonan and winked.

“I know, I know, I’ve heard about your brothel business!”

Noonan opened his eyes wide, put a finger to his lips, and nodded in the direction of the kitchen.

“Don’t worry, everybody knows about that,” said Redrick. “Money doesn’t stink. I’ve finally really understood that… But picking Hamfist to be your manager—I almost peed myself laughing when I heard! Setting a wolf to guard the sheep, you know… He’s a nut, I’ve known him since childhood!”

Here the old man, moving slowly and woodenly, like a giant doll, lifted his hand from his knee and dropped it on the table by his glass with a wooden bang. The hand was dark, with a bluish tint, and the clenched fingers made it look like a chicken foot. Redrick fell silent and looked at him. Something trembled in his face, and Noonan was amazed to see the most genuine, the most sincere love and affection expressed on that savage freckled mug.

“Drink up, Daddy, drink up,” said Redrick tenderly. “A little is all right, please have a bit… Don’t worry,” he told Noonan in an undertone, winking conspiratorially. “He’ll get to that glass, you can be sure of that.”

Looking at him, Noonan remembered what had happened when Boyd’s lab assistants showed up here to pick up this corpse. There were two lab assistants, both strong young guys, athletes and all that, and there was a doctor from the city hospital, accompanied by two orderlies—coarse brawny men used to lugging stretchers and pacifying the violent. One of the lab assistants described how “that redhead,” who at first didn’t seem to understand what was going on, let them into the apartment and allowed them to examine his father—and they might have just taken him away like that, since it looked like Redrick had gotten the idea that Dad was being taken to the hospital for preventive measures. But when the knucklehead orderlies—who in the process of the preliminary negotiations had hung around the kitchen and gawked at Guta washing windows—were summoned, they carried the old man like a log: dragging him, dropping him on the floor. Redrick became enraged, at which point the knucklehead doctor stepped forward and volunteered a detailed explanation of what was going on. Redrick listened to him for a minute or two, then suddenly, without any warning at all, exploded like a hydrogen bomb. The lab assistant telling the story didn’t even remember how he ended up outside. The redheaded devil kicked all five of them down the stairs, not letting a single one of them leave unaided, on his own two legs. Every one of them, according to the lab assistant, flew out the front door as if shot from a cannon. Two of them stayed unconscious on the pavement, and Redrick chased the remaining three for four blocks down the street, after which he came back to the Institute’s corpse-mobile and broke all of its windows—the driver was no longer in the vehicle; he had fled in the other direction.

“I recently tried this new cocktail in a bar,” Redrick was saying, pouring the whiskey. “It’s called Hell Slime, I’ll make you one later, after we eat. That, my friend, is the kind of stuff that’s hazardous for your health on an empty stomach; your arms and legs go numb after one drink… I don’t care what you say, Dick, tonight I’ll get you wasted. I’ll get you wasted, and I’ll get wasted myself. We’ll remember the good old days, we’ll remember the Borscht… Poor Ernie’s still in jail, you know?” He finished his drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and asked in an offhand manner, “So what’s new at the Institute, have you gotten started on the slime? You see, I’m a bit behind on my science…”

Noonan immediately understood why Redrick was steering the conversation in this direction. He threw up his hands and said, “You kidding, pal? You know what happened with the slime? Have you heard of the Carrigan Labs? It’s this little private setup… Anyway, they managed to get their hands on some slime…”

He described the catastrophe, the scandal, how they never figured out where the slime came from—never did clear that up—while Redrick listened in a seemingly absentminded way, clucking his tongue and nodding his head, then decisively splashed more whiskey into their glasses and said, “Serves them right, the parasites, may they all go to hell…”

They had another drink. Redrick looked at his dad—once more, something trembled in his face. He stretched out his hand and pushed the glass closer to the clenched fingers, and all of a sudden the fingers opened and closed again, grasping the bottom of the glass.

“Now things will go faster,” said Redrick. “Guta!” he hollered. “How long are you gonna starve us? It’s all for you,” he explained to Noonan. “She must be making your favorite salad, with the shrimp, I saw she’s been saving them for a while. Well, and how are things at the Institute in general? Find anything new? I hear you guys now have robots working their asses off, but not coming up with much.”

Noonan began telling him about Institute business, and as he talked, the Monkey silently appeared by the table next to the old man and stood there for a while, putting her furry little paws on the table. Suddenly, in a completely childlike manner, she leaned against the corpse and put her head on his shoulder. And Noonan, continuing to chatter, looked at these two monstrous offspring of the Zone and thought, My Lord, what else do we need? What else has to be done to us, so it finally gets through? Is this really not enough? He knew that it wasn’t enough. He knew that billions and billions didn’t know a thing and didn’t want to know and, even if they did find out, would act horrified for ten minutes and immediately forget all about it. I’ll get wasted, he thought savagely. Screw Burbridge, screw Lemchen… Screw this star-crossed family. I’m getting wasted.

“Why are you staring at them?” asked Redrick in a low voice. “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt her. On the contrary—they say they exude health.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Noonan, draining his glass in one gulp.

Guta came in, ordered Redrick to set the table, and put down a large silver bowl with Noonan’s favorite salad. And then the old man, in a single motion, as if someone had just remembered to pull the puppet strings, jerked the glass toward his open mouth.

“So, guys,” said Redrick in a delighted voice, “now we’ll have one hell of a party!”