Roadside Picnic

2

REDRICK SCHUHART, AGE 28, MARRIED, NO PERMANENT OCCUPATION

Redrick Schuhart lay behind a gravestone and looked at the road through a branch of the ash tree. The searchlights of the patrol car were combing the cemetery and once in a while one caught him in the eyes. Then he would squint and hold his breath.

Two hours had passed and things were still the same on the road. The car was still parked, its motor throbbing evenly, and kept scanning with its three searchlights the rundown graves, the lopsided, rusty crosses and headstones, the overgrown bushy ash trees, and the crest of the ten-foot-thick wall that broke off on the left. The border patrol guards were afraid of the Zone. They didn’t even get out of the car. Near the cemetery, they were even too scared to shoot. Redrick could hear their lowered voices once in a while, and once in a while he could see the light of a cigarette butt fly out of the car window and roll down the highway, skipping along and scattering weak red sparks. It was very damp, it had just rained, and Redrick could feel the dank cold through his waterproof jumpsuit.

He carefully released the branch, turned his head, and listened. Somewhere to the right, not too far, but not too close either, there was someone else in the cemetery. The leaves rustled there once more and soil crumbled, and then there was the soft thud of something hard and heavy falling. Redrick started crawling backward, carefully and without turning around, hugging the wet grass. The beam of light swung over his head. He froze, following its silent movement, and he thought he saw a man in black sitting motionless on a grave between the crosses. He was sitting there openly, leaning against a marble obelisk, turning his white face with its black sunken holes toward Redrick. Actually Redrick did not see him clearly, nor was it possible in the split second he had, but he filled in the details with his imagination. He crawled away a few more steps and felt for his flask inside his jacket. He pulled it out and lay with its warm metal against his cheek for a while. Then still holding onto the flask, he crawled on. He stopped listening and looking around.

There was a break in the wall and Burbridge was lying there in a lead-lined raincoat with a bullet hole in it. He was still on his back, pulling at the collar of his sweater with both hands and moaning painfully. Redrick sat next to him and unscrewed the flask’s cap. He carefully held Burbridge’s head, feeling the hot, sticky, sweaty bald spot with his palm, and brought the flask to the old man’s lips. It was dark, but in the weak reflections of the searchlights Redrick could see Burbridge’s wide-open, glassy eyes and the dark stubble that covered his cheeks. Burbridge greedily took several gulps and then nervously felt for his sack with the swag.

“You came back … Good fellow … Red. You won’t leave an old man to die.”

Redrick threw back his head and took a deep swallow.

“It’s still there. Like it was nailed to the highway.”

“It’s no accident,” Burbridge said. He spoke in spurts, on the exhale. “Someone must have squealed. They’re waiting for us.”

“Maybe,” said Redrick. “Want another swallow?”

“No. That’s enough for now. Don’t abandon me. If you don’t leave me, I won’t die. You won’t be sorry. You won’t leave me, will you? Red?”

Redrick did not answer. He was looking over at the highway and the flashes of light. He could see the marble obelisk, but he couldn’t tell if he was sitting there or not.

“Listen, Red. I’m not fooling. You won’t be sorry. Do you know why old Burbridge is still alive? Do you know? Bob the Gorilla blew it. Pharaoh the Banker kicked the bucket. And what a stalker he was! And he was killed. Slimy, too. And Norman Four-Eyes. Culligan. Pete the Scab. All of them. I’m the only who’s survived. Why? Do you know?”

“You were always a rat,” said Red, never taking his eyes off the road. “A son of a bitch.”

“A rat. That’s true. You can’t get by without being one. But all of them were. Pharaoh. Slimy. But I’m the only one left. Do you know why?”

“I know,” said Red to end the conversation.

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

“Yes.”

“You think it’s a fairy tale?”

“You’d better keep quiet. Save your strength.”

“It’s all right. You’ll carry me out. We’ve gone to the Zone so many times. Could you abandon me? I knew you when. You were so small. Your father … ”

Redrick said nothing. He wanted a cigarette badly. He took one out, crumpled the tobacco in his hand, and sniffed it. It didn’t help. “You have to get me out. I got burned because of you. You’re the one who wouldn’t take the Maltese.”

The Maltese was itching to go with them. He had treated them all evening, offering a good percentage, swore that he would get a special suit, and Burbridge, who was sitting next to him, kept winking to Red behind his leathery hand. Let’s take him, we won’t go wrong. Maybe that was why Red said no.

“You got it because you were greedy,” Red said coldly. “I had nothing to do with it. You’d better be quiet.”

For a while, Burbridge moaned. He had his fingers in his collar again and his head was thrown back.

“You can have all the swag,” he gasped. “Just don’t leave me.”

Redrick looked at his watch. There wasn’t much time until dawn, and the patrol car was still there. Its spotlights were still searching the bushes, and their camouflaged jeep was quite close to the police car. They could find it any minute.

“The Golden Ball,” said Burbridge. “I found it. There were so many tales about it. I spun a few myself. That it would grant your every wish. Any wish, hah! If that were true, I sure wouldn’t be here. I’d be living high on the hog in Europe. Swimming in dough.”

Redrick looked down at him. In the flickering blue light Burbridge’s upturned face looked dead. But his glassy eyes were fixed on Redrick.

“Eternal youth—like hell I got it. Money—the hell with that, too. But I got health. And good children. And I’m alive. You can only dream about the places I’ve been. And I’m still alive.” He licked his lips. “I only ask for one thing. Let me live. And give me health. And the children.”

“Will you shut up?” Red finally said. “You sound like a dame. If I can, I’ll get you out. I’m sorry for your Dina. She’ll have to hit the streets.”

“Dina,” the old man whispered hoarsely. “My little girl. My beauty. They’re spoiled, Red. I’ve never refused them anything. They’ll be lost. Arthur. My Artie. You know him, Red. Have you ever seen anything like him?”

“I told you: if I can I’ll save you.”

“No,” Burbridge said stubbornly. “You’ll get me out no matter what. The Golden Ball. Do you want me to tell you where it is?”

“Go ahead.”

Burbridge moaned and stirred.

“My legs … Feel how they are.”

Redrick reached out and moved his hand down his leg below the knee.

“The bones … ” He moaned. “Are the bones still there?”

“They’re there. Stop fussing.”

“You’re lying. Why lie? You think I don’t know, I’ve never seen it happen?”

Actually all he could feel was the kneecap. Below, all the way to the ankle, the leg was like a rubber stick. You could tie knots in it.

“The knees are whole,” Red said.

“You’re probably lying,” Burbridge said sadly. “Well, all right. Just get me out. I’ll give you everything. The Golden Ball. I’ll draw you a map. Show you all the traps. I’ll tell you everything.”

He promised other things, too, but Redrick wasn’t listening. He was looking at the highway. The spotlights weren’t racing across the shrubbery any more. They were frozen. They converged on that obelisk. In the bright blue fog Redrick could see the bent black figure wandering among the crosses. The figure seemed to be moving blindly, straight into the lights. Redrick saw it bump into a huge cross, stumble, bump into the cross again, walk around it, and continue on, its arms outstretched before it, fingers spread wide. Then it suddenly disappeared, as though it fell underground; it surfaced a few seconds later, to the right and farther away, stepping with a bizarre, inhuman stubbornness, like a wind-up toy.

Suddenly the lights went out. The transmission squealed, the engine roared, and the blue and red signal lights showed through the shrubs. The patrol car tore away, accelerated wildly, and raced toward town. It disappeared behind the wall. Redrick gulped and unzipped his jump suit.

“They’ve gone away.” Burbridge muttered feverishly. “Red, let’s go. Hurry!” He shifted around, felt for and found his bag, and tried to get up. “Let’s go, what are you waiting for?”

Redrick was still looking toward the road. It was dark now, and nothing could be seen, but somewhere out there he was stalking, like an automaton, stumbling, falling, bumping into crosses, getting tangled in the shrubs.

“All right,” Red said out loud. “Let’s go.” He lifted Burbridge. The old man clamped onto his neck with his left hand. Redrick, unable to straighten up, crawled with him on all fours through the hole in the wall, grabbing the wet grass.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Burbridge whispered hoarsely. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the swag, I won’t let go. Come on!”

The path was familiar, but the wet grass was slippery, the ash branches whipped him in the face, the bulky old man was unbearably heavy, like a corpse, and the bag with the booty, clinking and clanging, kept getting caught, and he was afraid of running into him, who could be anywhere in the dark.

When they got out onto the highway, it was still dark, but you could tell that dawn was coming. In the little wood across the road, birds were making sleepy and uncertain noises, and the night gloom was turning blue over the black houses in the distant suburbs. There was a chilly damp breeze coming from there. Redrick put Burbridge on the shoulder of the road and like a big black spider scuttled across the road. He quickly found the jeep, swept off the branches from the hood and fenders, and drove out onto the asphalt without turning on the headlights. Burbridge was there, holding the bag in one hand and feeling his legs with the other.

“Hurry up! Hurry. My knees, I still have my knees. If only we could save my knees!”

Redrick picked him up, and gritting his teeth from the strain, shoved him over the side. Burbridge landed on the back seat and groaned. He hadn’t dropped the bag. Redrick picked up the lead-lined raincoat and covered him with it. Burbridge had even managed to get the coat out.

Redrick took out a flashlight and checked the shoulder for tracks. There weren’t too many traces. The jeep had flattened some of the tall grasses as it came onto the road, but the grass would stand up in a couple of hours. There were an enormous number of butts around the spot where the patrol car had parked. That reminded Redrick that he wanted a smoke. He lit one up, even though what he wanted more was to get the hell out of there and drive as fast as he could. But he couldn’t do that yet. Everything had to be done slowly and consciously.

“What’s the matter?” Burbridge whined from the car. “You haven’t spilled the water, and the fishing gear is dry. What are you waiting for? Come on, hide the swag!”

“Shut up! Don’t bug me! We’ll head for the southern suburbs.”

“What surburbs? Are you crazy? You’ll ruin my knees, you bastard! My knees!”

Redrick took a last drag and put the butt in his matchbox.

“Don’t be a jerk, Buzzard. We can’t go straight through town. There are three roadblocks. We’ll get stopped once for sure.”

“So what?”

“They’ll take one look at your feet and it’s curtains.”

“What about my legs? We were fishing, I hurt my legs, and that’s that.”

“And what if they feel your legs?”

“Feel them. I’ll yell so loud that they’ll never try feeling a leg again.”

But Redrick had already decided. He lifted the driver’s seat, flashing his light, opened a secret compartment, and said:

“Let me have the stuff.”

The gas tank under the seat was a dummy. Redrick took the bag and stuffed it inside, listening to the clinking and clanging in the bag.

“I can’t take any risks,” he muttered. “I don’t have the right.”

He put the cover back on, covered it up with rubbish and rags, and replaced the seat. Burbridge was moaning and groaning, begging him to hurry, and promising him the Golden Ball again. He twisted and shifted in his seat, staring anxiously into the growing light. Redrick paid no attention to him. He tore open the plastic bag of water with the fish in it, poured out the water over the fishing gear, and put the flopping fish into the basket. He folded up the plastic bag and put it in his pocket. Now everything was in order. Two fishermen coming back from a not very successful trip. He got behind the wheel and started the car.

He drove all the way to the turn without putting on the lights. The vast ten-foot wall stretched to the left of them, hemming in the Zone, and on their right there were occasional abandoned cottages, with boarded windows and peeling paint. Redrick could see well in the dark, and it wasn’t that dark any more anyway, and besides, he knew that it was coming. So when the bent figure, striding rhythmically, appeared before the car, he didn’t even slow down. He hunched over the wheel. He was walking in the middle of the road—like all of them, he was headed for town. Redrick passed him from the left and speeded up.

“Mother of God!” Burbridge muttered in the back seat. “Red, did you see that?”

“Yes.”

“God! That’s all we need!” Suddenly Burbridge broke into a loud prayer.

“Shut up!” Redrick shouted at him.

The turn should have been right around there somewhere. Redrick slowed down, staring at the row of sinking houses and fences on the right. The old transformer hut, the pole with the supports, the rotting bridge over the culvert. Redrick turned the wheel. The car tossed and turned.

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

Redrick turned around for a second and slapped the old man’s face, feeling his prickly stubbled cheek. Burbridge sputtered and fell silent. The car was bouncing and the wheels slipped in the fresh mud from last night’s rain. Redrick turned on the lights. The white bouncing light illuminated overgrown old ruts, huge puddles, and rotten, leaning fences. Burbridge was crying, sobbing, and snuffling. He wasn’t promising anything any more. He was complaining and threatening, but in a very quiet and indistinct voice, so that Redrick heard only isolated words. Something about legs, knees, and his darling Archie. Then he shut up.

The village stretched along the western edge of the city. There once had been summer houses, gardens, orchards, and the summer villas of the city fathers and plant directors. Green, pleasant places with small lakes and clean sandy beaches, translucent birch groves, and ponds stocked with carp. The stink and pollution from the plant never reached this verdant glade—nor did the city plumbing system.

But now everything here was abandoned and they passed only one inhabited house—the window shone yellow through the drawn blinds, the wash on the line was wet from the rain, and a huge dog rushed out at them furiously and chased the car through the mud thrown up by the wheels.

Redrick carefully drove over an old rickety bridge. When he could see the turnoff to Western Highway, he stopped the car and turned off the motor. Then he got out and went on the road without looking back at Burbridge, his hands stuffed into the damp pockets of his jumpsuit. It was light. Everything around them was wet, still, and sleepy. He walked over to the highway and peered from the bushes. The police checkpoint was easily visible from his vantage point: a little trailer house, with three lighted windows. The patrol car was parked next to it. It was empty. Redrick stood watching for some time. There was no action at the checkpoint; the guards must have gotten cold and wornout during the night and were warming up in the trailer. Dreaming over cigarettes stuck to their lower lips. “The toads,” Redrick said softly. He found the brass knuckles in his pocket, slipped his fingers into the oval holes, pressed the cold metal into his fist, and still hunched up against the chill and with his hands still in his pockets, he went back. The jeep, listing slightly to one side, was parked among the bushes. It was a lost, quiet spot. Probably nobody had looked at it in the last ten years.

When Redrick reached the car, Burbridge sat up and looked at him, his mouth open. He looked even older than usual, wrinkled, bald, unshaven, and with rotten teeth. They stared at each other silently, and then Burbridge said distinctly:

“The map … all the traps, everything … You’ll find it and you won’t be sorry.”

Redrick listened to him without moving; then he loosened his fingers and let the brass knuckles fall into his pocket.

“All right. All you have to do is lie there in a faint. Understand? Moan and don’t let anyone touch you.”

He got behind the wheel and started the car.

Everything went well. No one got out of the trailer when the jeep drove slowly past, obeying all the signs and making all the correct signals. It accelerated and sped into town through the southern end. It was six A.M. The streets were empty, the pavement wet and shiny black, and the traffic lights winked lonely and unneeded at the intersections. They drove past the bakery with its high, brightly lit windows, and Redrick was engulfed in a wave of the warm, incredibly delicious smell of baking bread.

“I’m starved,” Redrick said and stretched his stiffened muscles by pushing his hands into the wheel.

“What?” Burbridge asked frightenedly.

“I’m starved, I said. Where to? Home or straight to the Butcher?”

“To the Butcher, and hurry.” Burbridge was ranting, leaning forward and breathing hotly on Redrick’s neck. “Straight to his house. Come on! He still owes me seven hundred. Will you drive faster? You’re crawling like a louse in a puddle.” He started cursing impotently and angrily, sputtering, panting. It ended in a coughing fit.

Redrick did not answer. He had neither the time nor the energy to pacify Buzzard when he was going at full speed. He wanted to finish up as soon as possible and get an hour or so of sleep before his appointment at the Métropole. He turned onto Sixteenth Street, drove two blocks, and parked in front of a gray, two-story private house.

The Butcher came to the door himself. He had just gotten up and was on his way to the bathroom. He was wearing a luxurious robe with gold tassels and was carrying a glass with his false teeth. His hair was disheveled and there were dark circles under his eyes.

“Oh, itsh Red? Sho how are you?”

“Put in your teeth and let’s go.”

“Uh-huh.” He nodded him into the waiting room and hurried off to the bathroom, scuffing along in his Persian slippers.

“Who is it?” he asked from there.

“Burbridge.”

“What?”

“His legs.”

Redrick could hear running water, snorting, splashing, and something fall and roll along the tile floor in the bathroom. Redrick sank exhaustedly into an armchair and lit a cigarette. The waiting room was nice. The Butcher didn’t skimp. He was a highly competent and very fashionable surgeon, influential in both city and state medical circles. He had gotten mixed up with the stalkers not for the money, of course. He collected from the Zone: he took various types of swag, which he used for research in his practice; he took knowledge, since he studied stricken stalkers and the various diseases, mutilations, and traumas of the human body that had never been known before; and he took glory, becoming famous as the first doctor on the planet to be a specialist in nonhuman diseases of man. He was also not averse to taking money, and in great amounts.

“What specifically is wrong with his legs?” he asked, appearing from the bathroom with a huge towel around his neck. He was carefully drying his sensitive fingers with the corner of the towel.

“Landed in the jelly,” Redrick said.

The Butcher whistled.

“Well, that’s the end of Burbridge. Too bad, he was a famous stalker.”

“It’s all right,” Redrick said, leaning back in the chair. “You’ll make artificial legs for him. He’ll hobble around the Zone on them.”

“All right.” The Butcher’s face became completely businesslike. “Wait a minute, I’ll get dressed.”

While he dressed and made a call—probably to his clinic to prepare things for the operation—Redrick lounged immobile in the armchair and smoked. He moved only once to get his flask. He drank in small sips because there was only a little on the bottom, and he tried to think about nothing. He simply waited.

They both walked out to the car. Redrick got in the driver’s seat, the Butcher next to him. He immediately bent over the back seat to palpate Burbridge’s legs. Burbridge, subdued and withdrawn, muttered pathetically, promising to shower him with gold, mentioning his deceased wife and his children repeatedly, and begging him to save at least his knees. When they got to the clinic, the Butcher cursed at not finding the orderlies waiting at the driveway and jumped out of the moving car to run inside. Redrick lit another cigarette. Burbridge suddenly spoke, clearly and calmly, apparently completely calm at last:

“You tried to kill me. I won’t forget.”

“I didn’t kill you, though,” Redrick said.

“No, you didn’t … ” He was silent. “I’ll remember that, too.”

“You do that. Of course, you wouldn’t have tried to kill me.” He turned and looked at Burbridge. The old man was nervously moving his lips. “You would have abandoned me just like that,” said Redrick.

“You would have left me in the Zone and thrown me in the water. Like Four-eyes.”

“Four-eyes died on his own,” Burbridge said gloomily. “I had nothing to do with it. It got him.”

“You bastard,” Redrick said dispassionately, turning away. “You son of a bitch.”

The sleepy rumpled attendants ran out onto the driveway, unfurling the stretcher as they came to the car. Redrick, stretching and yawning, watched them extricate Burbridge from the back seat and trundle him off on the stretcher. Burbridge lay immobile, hands folded on chest, staring resignedly at the sky. His huge feet, cruelly eaten away by the jelly, were turned out unnaturally. He was the last of the old stalkers who had started hunting for treasure right after the Visitation, when the Zone wasn’t called the Zone, when there were no institutes, or walls, or UN forces, when the city was paralyzed with fear and the world was snickering over the new newspaper hoax. Redrick was ten years old then and Burbridge was still a strong and agile man—he loved to drink when others paid, to brawl, to catch some unwary girl in a corner. His own children didn’t interest him in the least, and he was a petty bastard even then; when he was drunk he used to beat his wife with a repulsive pleasure, noisily, so that everyone could hear. He beat her until she died.

Redrick turned the jeep and, disregarding the lights, sped home, honking at the few pedestrians on the streets and cornering sharply.

He parked in front of the garage, and when he got out he saw the superintendent coming toward him from across the little park. As usual, the super was out of sorts, and his crumpled face with its swollen eyes mirrored extreme distaste, as though he were walking on liquid manure instead of the ground.

“Good morning,” Redrick said politely.

The super stopped two feet in front of him and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder.

“Is that your handiwork?” he asked. You could tell that those were his first words of the day.

“What are you talking about?”

“The swings, was it you who set them up?”

“I did.”

“What for?”

Redrick did not answer and went over to unlock the garage door. The super followed.

“I asked you why you set up the swings. Who asked you to?”

“My daughter,” he answered very calmly. He rolled back the door.

“I’m not asking you about your daughter!” He raised his voice. “That’s another question. I’m asking you who gave you permission? I mean who let you take over the park?”

Redrick turned to him and stared at the bridge of his nose, pale and covered with spidery veins. The super stepped back and spoke more softly.

“And don’t you repaint the terrace. How many times have I … ”

“Don’t bother. I’m not going to move out.”

He got back in the car and started the engine. As he took the wheel, he saw how white his knuckles were. Then he leaned out the window and no longer controlling himself, said:

“But if I am forced to move, you creep, you’d better say your prayers.”

He drove into the garage, turned on the light, and closed the door. He pulled the swag from the false gas tank, fixed up the car, put the bag in an old wicker basket, put the fishing gear, still damp and covered with grass and leaves, on top, and put the fish that Burbridge had bought in a store in the, suburbs last night on top of everything. Then he checked the car one more time. Out of habit. A flattened cigarette butt had stuck to the right rear fender. Redrick pulled it away—it was Swedish. He thought about it and put it into the matchbox. There were three butts in it already.

He didn’t meet anyone on the stairs. He stopped in front of his door and it flew open before he had time to get his keys. He walked in sideways, holding the heavy basket under his arm, and immersed himself in the warmth and familiar smells of home. Guta threw her arms around his neck and froze with her face on his chest. He could feel her heart beating wildly even through his jumpsuit and heavy shirt. He didn’t rush her—he stood patiently and waited for her to calm down, even though he fully sensed for the first time just then how tired and worn out he was.

“All right,” she finally said in a low husky voice and let go of him. She turned on the light in the entry and went into the kitchen. “I’ll have the coffee ready in a minute,” she called.

“I’ve brought some fish,” he said in an artificially hearty tone. “Fry it up, won’t you, I’m starved.”

She came back, hiding her face in her loosened hair; he set the basket on the floor, helped her take out the net with the fish, and they both carried the net to the kitchen and dumped the fish into the sink.

“Go wash up,” she said. “By the time you’re ready, the fish will be done.”

“How’s Monkey?” Redrick asked, pulling off his boots.

“She was babbling all evening,” Guta replied. “I barely got her to go to bed. She keeps asking, where’s daddy, where’s daddy? She wants her daddy all the time.”

She moved swiftly and quietly in the kitchen, strong and graceful. The water was boiling in the pan on the stove and the scales were flying under her knife, and the butter was sizzling in the largest pan, and there was the exhilarating smell of fresh coffee in the air.

Redrick walked in his bare feet to the entry hall, took the basket and brought it to the storeroom. Then he looked into the bedroom. Monkey was sleeping peacefully, her crumpled blanket hanging on the floor. Her nightie had ridden up. She was warm and soft, a little animal breathing heavily. Redrick could not resist the temptation to stroke her back covered with warm golden fur, and was amazed for the thousandth time by the fur’s silkiness and length. He wanted to pick up Monkey badly, but he was afraid it would wake her up—besides, he was as dirty as hell and permeated with death and the Zone. He came back into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

“Pour me a cup of coffee. I’ll wash up later.”

A bundle of evening mail was on the table: The Harmont Gazette, Sports, Playboy—there was a whole bunch of magazines—and the thick gray-covered Reports of the International Institute of Extraterrestrial Cultures, issue 56. Redrick took a mug of steaming coffee from Guta and reached for the Reports. Squiggles and markings, blueprints of some kind, and photographs of familiar objects from strange angles. Another posthumous article by Kirill: “An Unexpected Property of the Magnetic Trap Type-77b.” The surname Panov was framed in black and below in tiny type it said: “Dr. Kirill A. Panov, USSR, perished tragically during an experiment in April 19 … ” Redrick tossed away the journal, gulped some coffee, burning his mouth, and asked: “Did anyone drop by?”

“Gutalin was here,” Guta said, after a slight pause. She was standing by the stove and looking at him. “He was stinking drunk, I sobered him up.”

“How about Monkey?”

“She didn’t want to let him go, of course. She started bawling. But I told her that Uncle Gutalin wasn’t feeling very well. And she told me, ‘Gutalin’s smashed again.’ ”

Redrick laughed and took another sip. Then he asked another question.

“What about the neighbors?”

Guta hesitated again before answering. “Like always,” she finally said. “All right, don’t tell me.”

“Ah!” she said, waving her hand in disgust. “The woman from below knocked at our door last night. Her eyes were bulging and she was practically spitting with anger. Why are we sawing in the bathroom in the middle of the night?”

“The dangerous old bitch,” Redrick said through his teeth. “Listen, maybe we should move? Buy a house somewhere out in the country, where there’s no one else, some old abandoned cottage?”

“What about Monkey?”

“God, don’t you think the two of us could make her life good?” Guta shook her head.

“She loves children. And they love her. It’s not their fault that … ”

“No, it’s not their fault.”

“There’s no use talking about it!” Guta said. “Somebody called you. Didn’t leave a name. I told him you were out fishing.”

Redrick put down the mug and got up. “OK. I’ll go wash up. I’ve got lots of things to take care of.” He locked himself in the bathroom, threw his clothes in the pail, and placed the brass knuckles, the remaining nuts and bolts, and his cigarettes on the shelf. He turned himself under the boiling hot shower for a long time, rubbing his body with a rough sponge until it was bright red. He shut off the shower and sat on the edge of the tub, smoking. The pipes were gurgling and Guta was clattering dishes out in the kitchen. Then there was the smell of frying fish and Guta knocked, bringing him fresh underwear.

“Hurry it up,” she ordered. “The fish is getting cold.” She was completely back to normal—and back to being bossy. Redrick chuckled as he dressed—that is, put on his shorts and T-shirt—and went to the table.

“Now I can eat,” he said as he seated himself.

“Did you put your underwear in the pail?”

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

“Did you cover it with water?”

“No-ope. Sorry, sir, it won’t happen again, sir. Will you sit still? Forget it!” He caught her hand and tried to pull her into his lap, but she pulled away and sat across from him.

“You’re neglecting your husband,” Redrick said, his mouth full again. “Too squeamish?”

“Some husband you are now. You’re just an empty bag, not a husband. You have to be stuffed first.”

“What if I could?” Redrick asked. “Miracles do happen, you know.”

“I haven’t seen miracles like that from you before. How about a drink?”

Redrick played with his fork indecisively.

“N-no, thanks.” He looked at his watch and got up. “I’m off now. Get my dress-up outfit ready. First class. A shirt and tie.”

Enjoying the sensation of the cool floor under his clean bare feet, he went into the storeroom and barred the door. He put on a rubber apron and rubber gloves up to his elbows and started unloading the swag on the table. Two empties. A box of pins. Nine batteries. Three bracelets. Some kind of hoop, sort of like the bracelets, but of white metal, lighter, and bigger in diameter by an inch. Sixteen black sprays in a polyethylene case. Two marvelously preserved sponges the size of a fist. Three itchers. A jar of carbonated clay. There was still a heavy porcelain container carefully wrapped in fiberglass in the bag, but Redrick didn’t touch it. He smoked and examined the wealth spread out on the table.

Then he opened a drawer and took out a piece of paper, a pencil stump, and a calculator. He kept the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and squinting in the smoke, he wrote number after number, making three columns in all. He added up the first two. The numbers were impressive. He put out the butt in an ashtray and carefully opened the box and spilled out the pins on the paper. In the electric light the pins looked slightly blue and occasionally sputtered with other colors—yellow, red, and green. He picked up a pin and carefully squeezed it between his thumb and index finger, avoiding being pricked. Then he put out the light and waited a bit, getting accustomed to the dark. But the pin was silent. He put it aside and found another one, which he also squeezed. Nothing. He squeezed harder, risking a pinprick, and the pin spoke: weak red flashes ran along the pin and were suddenly replaced by slower green pulses. Redrick enjoyed this strange light play for a few seconds. He had learned from the Reports that the lights were supposed to mean something, maybe something very important. He put the pin in a different spot from the first and picked up another.

He ended up with seventy-three pins, twelve of which spoke. The rest were silent. Actually they too could speak, but fingers were not enough to get them started. You needed a special machine the size of the table. Redrick put on the light and added two more numbers to his list. And only then did he decide to do it.

He stuck both hands into the bag and holding his breath brought out a soft package and placed it on the table. He stared at it for a while, thoughtfully rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. Then he picked up the pencil, played with it with his clumsy rubbery fingers, and put it aside. He took another cigarette and smoked the entire thing without taking his eyes off the package.

“What the hell!” he said out loud and decisively stuffed the package back into the bag. “That’s it. Enough.”

He quickly gathered all the pins into the box and got up. It was time to go. He probably could get a half hour’s sleep to clear his head, but on the other hand, it was probably a much better idea to get there early and check out the situation. He took off the gloves, hung up the apron, and left the storeroom without turning out the light.

His suit was ready and laid out on the bed. Redrick got dressed. He was doing his tie in front of the mirror when the floor creaked behind him, and he heard heavy breathing, and he made a face to keep from laughing.

“Ha!” a tiny voice shouted next to him and someone grabbed his leg.

“Oh-oh!” Redrick exclaimed, falling back onto the bed.

Monkey, laughing and squealing, immediately clambered up on him. She trampled him, pulled his hair, and inundated him with an endless stream of news. The neighbor’s boy Willy tore off dolly’s leg. There was a new kitten on the third floor—all white and with red eyes, he probably didn’t listen to his mama and went into the Zone. She had porridge and jam for dinner. Uncle Gutalin was smashed again and was sick. He even cried. Why don’t fish drown if they live in water? Why didn’t mama sleep at night? Why are there five fingers, and and only two hands, and only one nose? Redrick carefully hugged the warm creature that was crawling all over him and looked into the huge dark eyes that had no whites at all, and cuddled his cheek against the plump little cheek covered with silky golden fleece.

“Monkey. My little Monkey. You sweet little Monkey, you.”

The phone rang by his ear. He picked up the receiver.

“I’m listening.”

Silence.

“Hello! Hello!”

No answer. There was a click and then short repeated tones. Redrick got up, put Monkey on the floor, and put on his trousers and jacket, no longer listening to her. Monkey chattered on nonstop, but he only smiled with his lips in a distracted way. Finally she announced that daddy had bit off his tongue and swallowed it and left him in peace.

He went back into the storeroom, put everything from the table into a briefcase, got his brass knuckles from the bathroom, came back to the storeroom, took the briefcase in one hand and the basket with the bag in the other, went out, carefully locked the door, and called out to Guta.

“I’m leaving.”

“When will you be back?” Guta came out of the kitchen. She had done her hair and put on makeup. She was no longer wearing her robe, either, but a house dress, his favorite one, bright blue and low-cut.

“I’ll call,” he said, looking at her. He walked over and kissed her cleavage.

“You’d better go,” Guta said softly.

“What about me? Kiss me?” Monkey whined, pushing between them.

He had to bend down even lower. Guta watched him steadily.

“Nonsense,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll call.”

On the landing below theirs, Redrick saw a fat man in striped pajamas fussing with the lock to his door. A warm sour smell was coming from the depths of his apartment. Redrick stopped.

“Good day.”

The fat man looked at him cautiously over his fat shoulder and muttered something.

“Your wife dropped by last night,” Redrick said. “Something about us sawing. It’s some kind of misunderstanding.”

“What do I care?” the man in the pajamas said.

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

“I didn’t say anything. Be my guest.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

Redrick went outside, dropped into the garage, put the basket with the bag into the corner, covered it with an old seat, looked over his work, and went out into the street.

It wasn’t a long walk—two blocks to the square, then through the park and one more block to Central Boulevard. In front of the Métropole, as usual, there was a shiny array of cars gleaming chrome and lacquer. The porters in raspberry red uniforms were lugging suitcases into the hotel, and some foreign-looking people were standing around in groups of two and three, smoking and talking on the marble steps. Redrick decided not to go in yet. He made himself comfortable under the awning of a small cafe across the street, ordered coffee, and lit up a cigarette. Not two feet from his table were three undercover men from the international police force, silently and quickly eating grilled hot dogs Harmont style and drinking beer from tall glass steins. On the other side, some ten feet away, a sergeant was gloomily devouring French fries, his fork in his fist. His blue helmet was set upside down on the floor by his chair and his shoulder holster draped on the chair back. There were no other customers. The waitress, an elderly woman he didn’t know, stood behind the counter and yawned, genteelly covering her painted mouth with her hand. It was twenty to nine.

Redrick saw Richard Noonan leave the hotel, chewing something, and arranging his soft hat on his head. He boldly strode down the steps—short, plump, and pink, still lucky, well-off, freshly washed, and confident that the day would bring him no unpleasantness. He waved to someone, flung his raincoat over his right shoulder, and walked over to his Peugeot. Dick’s Peugeot was also plump, short, freshly washed, and seemingly confident that no unpleasantness threatened it.

Covering his face with his hand, Redrick watched Noonan bustle, get comfortable in the front seat, move something from the front seat to the back, bend down to pick something up, and adjust the rearview mirror. The Peugeot expelled a puff of blue smoke, beeped at an African in a burnoose, and jauntily drove out into the street. It looked like Noonan was headed for the institute, in which case he had to go around the fountain and drive past the cafe. It was too late to get up and leave, so Redrick covered his face completely and hunched over his cup. It didn’t help. The Peugeot beeped in his ear, the brakes squealed, and Noonan’s hearty voice called:

“Hey! Schuhart! Red!”

Redrick swore under his breath and looked up. Noonan was walking toward him, hand outstretched. Noonan was beaming.

“What are you doing here at the crack of dawn?” he asked as he approached. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said to the waitress. “Nothing for me. I haven’t seen you in a hundred years. Where’ve you been? What are you up to?”

“Nothing special,” Redrick said unwillingly. “Just unimportant things.”

He watched Noonan bustle and establish himself in the chair opposite and move the glass with the napkins in one direction with his plump hands and the plate with sandwiches in another. And he listened to Noonan gab.

“You look kind of peaked. Not sleeping enough? You know, lately, I’ve been very busy with this new automation stuff, but I never miss my sleep, that’s for sure. The automation can go hang.” He suddenly looked around. “I’m sorry, maybe you’re expecting someone. Have I interrupted? Am I in the way?”

“No, no,” Redrick said lamely. “I just had some time and thought I’d have a cup of coffee, that’s all.”

“Well, I won’t keep you long,” Dick said, looking at his watch. “Listen, Red, why don’t you drop your unimportant things and come back to the institute. You know they’ll take you back whenever you want. You want to work with another Russian? There’s a new one.” Red shook his head.

“Nope, a second Kirill hasn’t been born. Anyway, there’s nothing for me to do in your institute. It’s all automated now, you have robots going into the Zone and that means that the robots get all the bonuses. The lab assistants are paid peanuts. It wouldn’t even keep me in cigarettes.”

“All that could be arranged.”

“I don’t like having things arranged for me,” Redrick said. “I’ve taken care of myself all my life, and I intend to keep on doing it.”

“You’ve become very proud,” Noonan said with condemnation.

“No, I’m not. I just don’t like pinching pennies.”

“I guess you’re right,” Noonan said distractedly. He looked at Redrick’s briefcase on the chair next to him and rubbed the silver plate with the engraved Cyrillic letters. “You’re right, a man needs money so that he doesn’t have to always be counting it. A present from Kirill?” he asked, nodding at the briefcase.

“I inherited it. How come I never see you at the Borscht anymore?”

“You’re the one who’s never there,” Noonan countered. “I have lunch there almost every day. At the Métropole they charge an arm and a leg for a hamburger. Listen,” he said suddenly, “how’s your money situation now?”

“Want a loan?”

“Just the opposite.”

“You want to lend me money?”

“I have work … ”

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

“Who else, then?” Noonan demanded.

“There’s lots of you … hirers.” Noonan, seeming to finally get his point, laughed.

“No, no, this isn’t along the lines of your primary specialty.”

“Along what lines then?”

Noonan looked at his watch again. “Here’s the deal,” he said, getting up. “Come to the Borscht for lunch, around two. We’ll talk.”

“I may not be able to make it by two.”

“Then this evening around six. All right?”

“We’ll see.” Redrick looked at his watch. It was five to nine.

Noonan waved and rolled out to his Peugeot. Redrick followed him with his eyes, called the waitress, paid the bill, bought a pack of Lucky Strikes, and slowly headed over to the hotel with his briefcase. The sun was baking hot already and the street had quickly become muggy, and Redrick felt a burning sensation under his eyelids. He squinted hard, sorry that he hadn’t time for an hour’s nap before his important business. And then it hit him.

He had never experienced anything like this before outside the Zone. And it had happened in the Zone only two or three times. It was as though he were in a different world. A million odors cascaded in on him at once—sharp, sweet, metallic, gentle, dangerous ones, as crude as cobblestones, as delicate and complex as watch mechanisms, as huge as a house and as tiny as a dust particle. The air became hard, it developed edges, surfaces, and corners, like space was filled with huge, stiff balloons, slippery pyramids, gigantic prickly crystals, and he had to push his way through it all, making his way in a dream through a junk store stuffed with ancient ugly furniture … It lasted a second. He opened his eyes, and everything was gone. It hadn’t been a different world—it was this world turning a new, unknown side to him. This side was revealed to him for a second and then disappeared, before he had time to figure it out.

An angry horn beeped, and Redrick walked faster, faster, and then ran all the way to the wall of the Métropole. His heart was beating wildly. He put the briefcase on the pavement and impatiently tore open the pack of cigarettes. He lit one, inhaled deeply, and rested, as if after a fight. A cop stopped near him and asked:

“Need help, mister?”

“N-no,” Redrick squeezed the word out and coughed. “It’s stuffy.”

“Can I take you where you’re going?”

Redrick picked up his briefcase.

“Everything, everything is fine, pal. Thanks.”

He walked quickly toward the entrance, walked up the steps and went into the lobby. It was cool, dusky, and echoey. He should have sat for a while in one of those voluminous leather chairs and caught his breath, but he was late already. He allowed himself time to finish the cigarette, checking out the crowd through half-shut eyes. Bones was there, irritatedly riffling through the magazines at the newsstand. Redrick threw the butt into the ashtray and went into the elevator. He didn’t manage to close the door in time and others crowded in: a fat man breathing asthmatically, a heavily perfumed lady with a grumpy little boy eating chocolate, and a heavyset old woman with a poorly shaved chin. Redrick was pushed into the corner. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the boy with chocolate saliva dripping down his chin, whose face was fresh and pure, without a single hair. And to shut out his mother, whose scrawny bosom was embellished with a necklace made of large black sprays set in silver. And to shut out the bulging sclerotic whites of the eyes of the fat man, and the hideous warts on the swollen face of the old woman. The fat man tried to light a cigarette, but the old woman attacked him and kept after him until she got out on five. As soon as she did, the fat man lit up with a look that proclaimed that he was defending his civil rights, and broke out coughing and hacking as soon as he inhaled, sticking out his lips like a camel and jabbing Redrick in the ribs with his elbow.

Redrick got out on the eighth floor and walked down the thick carpet on the corridor, cozily illuminated by hidden lamps. It smelled of expensive tobacco, French perfumes, the soft natural leather of stuffed wallets, expensive ladies of the night, and solid gold cigarette cases. It reeked of everything, of the lousy fungus that was growing on the Zone, drinking on the Zone, eating, exploiting, and growing fat on the Zone and that didn’t give a damn about any of it, especially about what would happen later, when it had eaten its full and gotten power, and when everything that was once in the Zone was outside the Zone. Redrick pushed open the door to 874 without knocking.

Throaty, sitting on a table by the window, was performing a ritual over a cigar. He was still in his pajamas and his thinning hair, though wet, was carefully parted. His unhealthy puffy face was smoothly shaved.

“Aha,” he said without looking up. “Punctuality is the politeness of kings. Good day, young man!”

He finished clipping the end of the cigar, took it in both hands, brought it up to his nose, and passed it back and forth under it.

“Where is good old Burbridge?” he asked and looked up. His eyes were clear, blue, angelic.

Redrick put the briefcase on the sofa, sat down, and took out his cigarettes.

“Burbridge isn’t coming.”

“Good old Burbridge,” Throaty repeated. He took the cigar between two fingers and carefully brought it to his mouth. “Old Burbridge’s nerves are acting up.”

He kept looking at Redrick with his clear blue eyes, never blinking. He never blinked. The door opened slightly and Bones slipped into the room.

“Who were you talking to?” he asked from the doorway.

“Ah, hello,” Redrick said cheerily, flipping ashes on the floor.

Bones shoved his hands in his pockets and came closer, taking broad steps with his huge pigeon-toed feet. He stopped in front of Redrick.

“We’ve told you a hundred times,” he reproached him. “No contacts before a meeting. And what do you do?”

“I say hello,” Redrick replied. “And you?”

Throaty laughed. Bones was irritated.

“Hello, hello, hello.” He removed his reproachful gaze from Redrick and flung himself down on the couch next to him. “You cannot behave that way. Do you understand me? You cannot!”

“Then arrange meetings in places where I don’t know anybody.”

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

“Richard Noonan. He represents some companies that supply the institute. He lives here in the hotel.”

“You see how simple it is!” Throaty said to Bones. He picked up a colossal lighter shaped like the Statue of Liberty, looked at it doubtfully, and replaced it on the table.

“Where’s Burbridge,” Throaty asked in a friendly tone.

“Burbridge blew it.”

The two men exchanged a quick glance.

“Rest in peace,” Throaty said tensely. “Or has he been arrested?”

Redrick didn’t answer right away, taking slow long drags on his cigarette. He threw the butt on the floor.

“Don’t worry, everything’s safe. He’s in the hospital.”

“That’s some safe!” Bones said nervously. He jumped up and went over to the window. “Which hospital?”

“Don’t worry, everything is taken care of. Let’s get down to business. I’m sleepy.”

“What hospital specifically?” Bones asked in irritation.

“I’ve told you,” Redrick picked up the briefcase. “Are we doing business today or not?”

“We are, we are, son,” Throaty said heartily.

With unexpected agility he leaped to the floor, knocked all the magazines and newspapers from the coffee table, and sat in front of it, resting his hairy pink hands on his knees.

“Show your stuff.”

Redrick opened the briefcase, took out the list with prices, and put it on the table before Throaty. Throaty glanced at it and flicked it to the side. Bones stood behind him and started reading the list over his shoulder.

“That’s the bill,” Redrick said.

“I see. Let’s see the stuff,” Throaty said.

“The money,” Redrick said.

“What’s this ‘hoop’?” Bones asked suspiciously, pointing at the list over Throaty’s shoulder.

Redrick said nothing. He was holding the open briefcase on his lap and staring into the blue angelic eyes. Throaty finally chuckled.

“And why do I love you so much, my son?” he muttered. “And they say love at first sight doesn’t exist!” He sighed dramatically. “Phil, buddy, how do they say it here? Dole out the cabbage, lay some greenbacks on him … and give me a match. You see … ” He waved his cigar at him.

Phil the Bones muttered something under his breath, tossed him a book of matches, and went through a curtain into the next room. Redrick could hear him talking to someone there, irritated and indistinct, something about the cat being in the bag, and Throaty, his cigar finally lit, kept staring at Redrick with a frozen smile on his thin pale lips. Redrick, chin on briefcase, was looking at him and also trying not to blink, even though his lids were burning and his eyes were tearing. Bones came back, threw two packs of money on the table, and sat next to Redrick in a huff. Redrick lazily reached for the money, but Throaty motioned him to stop, tore the wrappers from the money, and put them in his pajama pocket. “Now let’s see it.”

Redrick took the money and stuffed it into his inner jacket pocket without counting it. Then he presented his wares. He did it slowly, letting both of them examine the swag and check items off the list. It was quiet in the room, the only sound was Throaty’s heavy breathing and the jingle coming from the other room—a spoon against the side of a glass, perhaps.

When Redrick shut the briefcase and clicked the lock, Throaty looked up at him.

“What about the most important thing?”

“No way,” Redrick replied. He thought and added: “So far.”

“I like that ‘so far,’ ” Throaty said gently. “How about you, Phil?”

“You’re throwing dust in our eyes, Schuhart,” Bones said suspiciously. “Why the mystery, I ask you?”

“That comes with the territory: shady dealings,” Redrick said. “We’re in a demanding profession.”

“All right, all right,” Throaty said. “Where’s the camera?”

“Hell!” Redrick scratched his cheek, feeling the color rise in his face. “I’m sorry, I forgot all about it.”

“There?” Throaty asked making a vague gesture with the cigar.

“I don’t remember. Probably there.” Redrick shut his eyes and leaned back on the couch. “Nope. I clean forgot.”

“Too bad,” Throaty said. “But you at least saw the thing?”

“Not even that,” Redrick said sadly. “That’s the whole point. We didn’t get as far as the blast furnaces. Burbridge fell into the jelly and I had to head back immediately. You can be sure that if I’d seen it I wouldn’t have forgotten it.”

“Hey, Hugh, look at this!” Bones whispered in fright. “What’s this?”

He stuck out his right index finger. The white metal hoop was twirling around his finger and Bones was staring pop-eyed at the hoop.

“It’s not stopping!” he said aloud, moving his eyes from the hoop to Throaty and back again.

“What do you mean it’s not stopping?” Throaty asked carefully and moved away.

“I put it on my finger and gave it a spin, just for the hell of it, and it hasn’t stopped for a whole minute!”

Bones jumped up and, holding his finger extended before him, ran behind the curtain. The silvery hoop twirled smoothly in front of him like a propeller.

“What the hell did you bring us?” Throaty asked.

“God knows! I had no idea—if I had, I’d have asked more for it.”

Throaty stared at him, then got up and went behind the curtain.

Voices started babbling immediately. Redrick picked up a magazine from the floor and flipped through it. It was chock-full of beauties, but somehow they nauseated him just then. Redrick’s eyes roved around the room, looking for something to drink. Then he took a pack from his inside pocket and counted the bills. Everything was in order, but to keep from falling asleep, he counted the other one. Just as he was putting it back into his pocket, Throaty came back.

“You’re lucky, son,” he announced, sitting opposite Redrick once more. “Do you know what a perpetuum mobile is?”

“Nope, we never studied that.”

“And you don’t need to,” Throaty said. He pulled out another pack. “That’s the price for the first specimen,” he said, pulling off the wrapping. “For each new one you’ll get two packs like this. Got it, son? Two apiece. But only on the condition that no one except you and I ever know about it. Are we agreed?”

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

“You’ll be called. Wait for a call every Friday between nine and nine-thirty in the morning. You’ll get regards from Phil and Hugh and a meeting will be set up.”

Redrick nodded and headed for the door. Throaty followed, and put his hand on his shoulder.

“I want you to understand one thing,” he continued. “All this is very nice, charming, and so on, and the hoop is simply marvelous, but above all we need two things: the photos and the container filled up. Return our camera to us, but with exposed film, and our porcelain container, but not empty. Filled. And you’ll never have to go into the Zone again.”

Redrick shook Throaty’s hand from his shoulder, unlocked the door, and went out. Without turning he walked down the thickly carpeted hallway and sensed the unwavering blue angelic gaze fixed on the back of his neck. He didn’t wait for the elevator but walked down from the eighth floor.

Outside the Métropole he called a cab and went to the other side of town. The driver was a new one, someone Redrick didn’t know, a beak-nosed, pimply fellow. One of the hundreds that had poured into Harmont in the last few years to look for exciting adventures, untold riches, world fame, or some special religion. They poured in and ended up as chauffeurs, construction workers, or thugs—thirsting, wretched, tortured by vague desires, profoundly disillusioned, and certain that they had been tricked once again. Half of them, after hanging around for a month or two, returned to their homes, cursing, and spreading the word of their disillusionment to all the countries of the world. A very few became stalkers and quickly perished before they had caught onto the tricks of the trade. Some managed to get a job at the institute, but only the best-educated and smartest of them, who could at least work as lab assistants. The rest wasted evening after evening in bars, brawled over some difference of opinion, girls, or just because they were drunk, and drove the municipal police, the army, and the guards out of their minds.

The pimply driver reeked of liquor a mile away, and his eyes were rabbit red, but he was very excited and told Redrick how that morning a stiff from the cemetery showed up on their block. “He came back to his house, and the house had been locked up for years, and everyone had moved—his widow, an old lady now, and his daughter and her husband, and their children. He had died, the neighbors said, some thirty years ago, that is, before the Visitation, and now there he was. He walked around the house, sniffed and scratched, and then sat by the fence and waited. People came round from the whole neighborhood. They stared and stared but were afraid, of course, to come close. Finally somebody got a bright idea—they broke open the door to his house, making an entrance for him. And what do you think? He got up, went in, and shut the door behind him. I was late for work, so I don’t know how it turned out, but I do know that they were planning to call the institute and have someone come over and get him the hell out of there.”

“Stop,” Redrick said. “Let me off right here.”

He rummaged in his pocket. He had no change and had to break a new bill. Then he stood in the doorway and waited for the cab to drive away. Buzzard’s cottage wasn’t too bad: two stories, a glassed-in veranda with a pool table, a well-tended garden, a greenhouse, and a white gazebo under the apple trees. A filigree iron fence painted light green surrounded it ail. Redrick pushed the bell several times, the gate swung open with a creak, and Redrick slowly moved up the shady path, with rose bushes planted along the edges. Hamster was already standing on the porch. He was gnarled, black, and trembling with the desire to be of service. Impatiently he turned sideways, lowered one trembling leg in search of support, steadied himself, and dragged the other foot to meet its mate. His right arm shook convulsively in Redrick’s direction, as if to say, coming, coming, any minute.

“Hey, Red!” a woman’s voice called from the garden.

Redrick turned his head and saw bare tanned shoulders, a bright red mouth, and a waving hand among the greenery next to the lacy white roof of the gazebo. He nodded to Hamster, turned from the path, and breaking through the rose bushes, headed for the gazebo along the soft green grass.

A large red mat was spread on the lawn, and Dina Burbridge was sitting regally on it with a glass in her hand and a miniscule bathing suit on her body; a book with a bright cover lay on the mat and an ice bucket with a slender bottle neck peering over the edge sat in the shade nearby.

“Hi, Red!” Dina Burbridge said, greeting him with a wave of the glass. “Where’s the old man? Don’t tell me he’s messed up again?”

Redrick stood over her with the briefcase in his hands behind his back. Yes, Buzzard sure managed to wish himself up some marvelous children out there in the Zone. She was all silk and satin, firm and full, flawless, without a single unnecessary wrinkle—a hundred-twenty pounds of sugar-candy flesh, and emerald eyes that had an inner glow, a large wet mouth and even white teeth, and raven hair, shining in the sun and carelessly tossed over one shoulder. The sun was caressing her, pouring from her shoulders to her belly and hips, leaving deep shadows between her almost naked breasts. He stood above her and looked her over openly, and she looked up at him, laughing understandingly, and then raised the glass to her lips and took several sips.

“You want?” she asked, licking her lips. She waited just long enough for him to get the double entendre and then handed him the glass.

He turned and looked until he found a chaise longue in the shade. He sat down and stretched his legs.

“Burbridge is in the hospital,” he said. “They’re going to amputate his legs.”

Still smiling, she looked at him with one eye. The other was covered by the heavy hair that fell over her shoulder. But her smile had frozen—a sugary grin on a tan face. Then she swirled the glass, listening to the tinkle of the ice cubes.

“Both legs?”

“Both. Maybe below the knees, maybe above.”

She put down the glass and pushed back her hair. She was no longer smiling.

“Too bad,” she said. “And that means you … ”

Dina Burbridge was the one person he could have told how it happened in all the details. He could have even told her how they drove back, his brass knuckles ready, and how Burbridge had begged—not for himself even, but for the children, for her and for Archie, and promised him the Golden Ball. But he didn’t tell her. He pulled out a pack of money from his breast pocket and tossed it onto the red mat right at her long naked legs. The notes fanned out in a rainbow. Dina absentmindedly picked up several and examined them, as though she had never seen one before but wasn’t that interested.

“This is the last earnings, then,” she said.

Redrick leaned over from the chaise longue and pulled the bottle from the ice bucket. He looked at the label. Water was dripping along the dark glass and Redrick held the bottle away from himself, so as not to drip on his pants. He did not like expensive whiskey, but he could force himself to have a slug at a time like this. He was just about to put the bottle to his mouth when he was stopped by indistinct sounds of protestation behind him. He looked around and saw that Hamster was painfully dragging his feet across the lawn, holding a glass of clear liquid in both hands. The exertion was making the sweat pour off his dark wooly head, and his bloodshot eyes had practically popped out of their sockets. When he saw that Redrick was looking at him he extended the glass in despair and sort of mooed and howled, opening his toothless mouth ineffectually.

“I’ll wait, I’ll wait,” Redrick said and shoved the bottle back in the bucket.

Hamster finally limped over, gave Redrick the glass, and patted his shoulder shyly with his arthritic hand.

“Thanks, Dixon,” Redrick said seriously. “That’s just what I need right now. As usual, you’re right on top of things.”

And while Hamster shook his head in embarrassment and rapture and convulsively slapped himself on the hip with his good arm, Redrick raised the glass, nodded to him, and gulped down half. Then he looked at Dina.

“You want?” he asked meaning the glass.

She did not reply. She was folding a bill in half and in half once again, and then again.

“Cut it out,” he said. “You won’t be lost. Your old man … ”

She interrupted him.

“And so you dragged him out,” she said. She wasn’t asking, she was stating a fact. “You carried him, you jerk, through the whole Zone, you redheaded cretin, you dragged that bastard on your backbone, you ass. You blew an opportunity like that.”

He was watching her, his glass forgotten. She got up and stood in front of him, walking over the scattered money, and stopped, her clenched fists jammed into her smooth hip, blocking out the entire world for him with her marvelous body smelling of perfume and sweet sweat.

“He’s got all of you idiots wrapped around his finger. He’ll walk all over your bones. Just wait and see, he’ll walk on your thick skulls on crutches. He’ll show you the meaning of brotherly love and mercy!” She was screaming. “I’ll bet he promised you the Golden Ball, right? The map, the traps, right? Jerk! I can see by your dumb face that he did! Just wait, he’ll give you a map. Lord have mercy on the soul of the redheaded fool Redrick Schuhart.”

Redrick got up slowly and slapped her face hard. She shut up, sank to the grass, and buried her face in her hands.

“You fool … Red,” she muttered. “To blow an opportunity like that.”

Redrick looked down at her and finished the vodka. He thrust it at Hamster without looking at him. There was nothing to talk about. Some fine kids Burbridge conjured up in the Zone. Loving and respectful.

He went into the street and hailed a cab. He told the driver to go to the Borscht. He had to finish up his affairs. He was dying for sleep, everything was swimming before his eyes, and he fell asleep in the cab, his body slumped over the briefcase, and awoke only when the driver shook him.

“We’re here, mister.”

“Where are we?” he looked around. “I told you the bank.”

“No way, buddy. You said the Borscht. Here’s the Borscht.”

“OK,” Redrick grumbled. “I must have dreamed it.”

He paid up and got out, barely able to move his heavy legs. The asphalt was steaming in the sun, and it was very hot. Redrick realized that he was soaked, that there was a bad taste in his mouth, and that his eyes were tearing. He looked around before going in. As usual at this time of day the street was deserted. Businesses weren’t open yet, and the Borscht was supposed to be closed too, but Ernest was at his post already, wiping glasses and giving dirty looks to the trio sopping up beer at the corner table. The chairs had not been removed from the other tables. An unfamiliar porter in a white jacket was mopping the floor and another was struggling with a case of beer behind Ernest. Redrick went up to the bar, put the briefcase on the bar, and said hello. Ernest muttered something that was not exactly welcoming.

“Give me a beer,” Redrick said and yawned convulsively.

Ernest slammed an empty mug on the table, grabbed a bottle from the refrigerator, opened it, and upended it over the mug. Redrick, covering his mouth with his hand, stared at Ernest’s hand. It was trembling. The bottle hit the edge of the mug several times. Redrick looked up at Ernest’s face. His heavy eyelids were lowered, his puffy mouth twisted, and his fat cheeks drooping. The porter was mopping right under Redrick’s feet, the guys in the corner were arguing loudly over the races, and the other porter with the crates backed into Ernest so hard that he reeled. The man mumbled an apology. Ernest spoke in a cramped voice.

“Did you bring it?”

“Bring what?” Redrick looked over his shoulder.

One of the guys stood up lazily and went to the door. He stopped in the doorway to light a cigarette.

“Let’s go talk,” Ernest said.

The porter with the mop was now also between Redrick and the door. A big black man, along the lines of Gutalin, but twice as broad.

“Let’s go,” Redrick said and picked up the briefcase. He didn’t feel sleepy anymore, in either eye.

He went behind the bar and squeezed past the porter with the cases of beer. The porter had apparently caught his finger. He was sucking his fingertip and watching Redrick. He was a big fellow, with a broken nose and cauliflower ears. Ernest went into the back room, and Redrick followed him, because now the three guys from the corner table were blocking the door and the porter with the mop was standing near the curtains that led to the storeroom.

In the back room Ernest stepped aside and sat on a chair by the wall. Captain Quarterblad, yellow and angry, stood up from the table. From somewhere on the left a huge UN trooper appeared, his helmet pulled down over his eyes, and quickly frisked him with his large hands. He slowed down at his right pocket and extracted the brass knuckles. He prodded Redrick in the captain’s direction. Redrick approached the table and set the briefcase in front of Captain Quarterblad.

“You bloodsucker,” he said to Ernest.

Ernest raised his eyebrows and shrugged one shoulder. It was all clear. The two porters in the doorway were smirking, and there were no other doors and the window was barred from the outside.

Captain Quarterblad, his face contorted by disgust, was digging around with both hands in the briefcase, and taking out the swag and putting in on the table: two small empties; nine batteries; various sizes of black sprays, sixteen pieces in a polyethylene package; two perfectly preserved sponges; and one jar of carbonated clay …

“Anything in your pockets?” Captain Quarterblad asked softly. “Empty them.”

“Snakes,” Redrick said. “Skunks.”

He pulled out a pack of bills and flung it on the table. They scattered.

“Aha!” the captain said. “Any more?”

“Lousy toads!” Redrick shouted and threw the second pack on the floor. “There you go. I hope you choke on it!”

“Very interesting,” the captain said calmly. “Now pick it up.”

“The hell I will,” Redrick said, putting his hands behind his back. “Your slaves will pick it up. You can pick it up yourself, for all I care.”

“Pick up the money, stalker,” Captain Quarterblad said without raising his voice, leaning his fist on the table and straining toward Redrick.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Redrick, muttering curses under his breath, crouched down, and reluctantly set about picking up the money. The porters were snickering behind his back and the UN trooper snorted gleefully.

“Don’t snort at me!” Redrick said. “You’ll lose your snot.”

He was crawling around on his hands and knees, picking up the notes one by one, moving closer and closer to the dark brass ring lying peacefully on the dusty parquet floor. He turned to get better access. He kept shouting obscenities, all the ones he could remember and ones he was making up along the way. When the moment was right, he shut up, tensed, grabbed the ring, pulled it up with all his strength, and before the opened trapdoor landed on the floor he had jumped head first into the gray cold prison of the wine cellar.

He fell on his hands, somersaulted, jumped up, and ran hunched over, seeing nothing, counting on his memory and luck, into the narrow passageway between cases of bottles, knocking them over as he went past, hearing them fall and shatter in the passage behind him. Slipping, he ran up some invisible steps, threw his body against the door with its rusty hinges, and found himself in Ernest’s garage. He was shaking and panting, there were bloody spots swimming before his eyes and his heart was beating heavily with strong jolts right in his throat, but he did not stop for a second. He ran to the far corner, and scraping his hands, tore into the mountain of garbage that hid the place where the boards had been removed from the wall. He lay down on his stomach and crawled through, hearing his jacket tear, and when he was out in the narrow courtyard he crouched down behind the garbage cans, pulled off his jacket, threw away his tie, gave himself a quick once-over, brushed off his pants, straightened up, and ran into the yard. He dove into a low smelly tunnel that led to the next courtyard. He listened for the whine of the police sirens as he ran, but there weren’t any yet, and he ran faster, scaring playing children, dodging hanging laundry, crawling through holes in rotten fences—trying to get out of the neighborhood as fast as possible, before Captain Quarterblad could cordon it off. He knew the area very well. He had played in all the yards and cellars, the abandoned laundries, and the coal cellars. He had plenty of acquaintances and even friends here, and under different circumstances he would have had no trouble in hiding out, even for a week, in the neighborhood. But he hadn’t made a daring escape from arrest under Captain Quarterblad’s very nose, adding an easy twelve months to his sentence, for that.

He was very lucky. On Seventh Street a parade of some brotherhood or other was making raucous progress down the street. Two hundred of them, just as disheveled and filthy as he was. Some looked worse, as though they had spent the evening crawling through holes in fences, spilling the contents of garbage cans on themselves, maybe after having spent the night rowdily in a coal bin. He ducked out of a doorway into the crowd, cutting across it, pushing and shoving, stepping on feet, getting an occasional fist in his face, and returning the favor, until he broke out on the other side of the street and ducked into another doorway. Just then the familiar disgusting wail of the patrol cars resounded, and the parade came to a grinding halt, folding up like an accordion. But he was in a different neighborhood now, and Captain Quarterblad had no way of knowing which one.

He approached his own garage from the side of the radio and electronics store, and he had to wait while the workmen loaded a van with television sets. He made himself comfortable in the ragged lilac bushes by the windowless side of the neighboring houses, caught his breath and had a cigarette. He smoked greedily, crouching down and leaning against the rough fireproof wall, touching his cheek from time to time, trying to still the nervous tic. He thought and thought and thought. When the van with the workers pulled away honking into the driveway, he laughed and said softly after them: “Thanks, boys, you held up this fool … and let me think.” He started moving quickly, but without rushing, cleverly and premeditatedly, like he worked in the Zone.

He entered his garage through the hidden passage, noiselessly lifted the old seat, carefully pulled the roll of paper from the bag in the basket, and slipped it inside his shirt. He took an old worn leather jacket from a hook, found a greasy cap in the corner, and pulled it down over his eyes. The cracks in the door let narrow rays of light with dancing dust into the gloomy garage, and kids were yelling and playing outside. As he was leaving, he heard his daughter’s voice. He put his eye against the widest crack and watched Monkey wave two balloons and run around the swings. Three old women with knitting in their laps were sitting on a nearby bench, watching her with pursed lips. Exchanging their lousy opinions, the dried-up hags. The kids were fine, playing with her as though she were just like them. It was worth all the bribery—he built them a slide, and a doll house, and the swings—and the bench that the old biddies were on. “All right,” he said, tore himself away from the crack, looked around the garage one more time, and crawled into the hole.

In the southwest part of town, near the abandoned gas station at the end of Miner Street, there was a phone booth. God only knew who used it nowadays—all the houses around it were boarded up and beyond it was the seemingly endless empty lot that used to be the town dump. Redrick sat down in the shade of the booth and stuck his hand into the crack below it. He felt the dusty wax paper and the handle of the gun wrapped in it; the lead box of bullets was there, too, as well as the bag with the bracelets and the old wallet with fake documents. His hiding place was in order. Then he took off his jacket and cap and felt inside his shirt. He sat for a minute or more, hefting in his hand the porcelain container and the invincible and inevitable death it contained. And he felt the nervous tic come back.

“Schuhart,” he muttered, not hearing his own voice, “what are you doing, you snake? You scum, they can kill us all with this thing.” He held his twitching cheek, but it didn’t help. “Bastards,” he said about the workers who had been loading the TV sets. “You got in my way. I would have thrown it back into the Zone, the bitch, and it would have been all over.”

He looked around sadly. The hot air was shimmering over the cracked cement, the boarded-up windows looked at him gloomily, and tumbleweed rolled around the lot. He was alone.

“All right,” he said decisively. “Every man for himself, only God takes care of everybody. I’ve had it.”

Hurrying, so as not to change his mind, he stuffed the container into the cap, and wrapped the cap in the jacket. Then he got on his knees, and leaned against the booth. It moved. The bulky package fit in the bottom of the pit under the booth, with room to spare. He carefully replaced the booth, shook it to see how steady it was, and got up, brushing off his hands.

“That’s it. It’s settled.”

He got into the heat of the phone booth, deposited a coin, and dialed.

“Guta,” he said. “Please, don’t worry. They caught me again.” He could hear her shuddering sigh. He quickly added: “It’s a minor offense, six to eight months, with visiting rights. We’ll manage. And you’ll have money, they’ll send it to you.” She was still silent. “Tomorrow morning they’ll call you down to the command post, we’ll see each other then. Bring Monkey.”

“Will there be a search?” she asked.

“Let them. The house is clean. Don’t worry, keep your tail up—you know, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You married a stalker, so don’t complain. See you tomorrow. And remember, I didn’t call. I kiss your little nose.”

He hung up abruptly and stood for a few seconds, eyes shut and teeth clenched so tightly there was a tingling in his ears. Then he deposited another coin and dialed another number.

“Listening,” said Throaty.

“It’s Schuhart. Listen carefully and don’t interrupt.”

“Schuhart? What Schuhart?” asked Throaty in a natural manner.

“Don’t interrupt, I said! They caught me, I ran, and I’m going to turn myself in now. I’m going to get two and a half or three years. My wife will be penniless. You take care of her. So that she needs nothing, understand? Understand, I said?”

“Go on,” said Throaty.

“Not far from the place where we first met, there’s a phone booth. It’s the only one, you won’t mistake it. The porcelain is under it. If you want it, take it, if you don’t, don’t. But my wife must be taken care of. We still have many years of playing together. If I come back and find out you double-crossed me … I don’t suggest that you do. Understand?”

“I understand everything,” said Throaty. “Thanks.” After a pause, he asked: “Maybe you want a lawyer?”

“No,” said Redrick. “Every last cent goes to my wife. My regards.”

He hung up, looked around, dug his hands into his pants pockets, and slowly went up Miner Street between the empty, boarded-up houses.