Roadside Picnic (14 page)

Mr. Lemchen rose heavily from the big leather armchair in front of the draped window. His angular general’s face was wrinkled either in a welcoming smile or in displeasure with the weather or, perhaps, in a struggle with a sneeze.

“Here you are. Come in, make yourself comfortable.”

Noonan looked around for a place to make himself comfortable and could find nothing except for a hard, straight-backed chair tucked away behind the desk. He sat on the edge of the desk. His jovial mood was dissipating for some reason – he himself did not understand why. Suddenly he understood that he was not going to be praised today. On the contrary. The day of wrath, he thought philosophically and steeled himself for the worst.

“Please smoke,” Mr. Lemchen offered, lowering himself back into the armchair.

“No thank you, I don’t smoke.”

Mr. Lemchen nodded as though his worst suspicions had been confirmed, pressed his fingertips together in a steeple in front of his face, and carefully examined them for a while.

“I suppose that we won’t be discussing the legal affairs of the Mitsubishi Denshi Company,” he finally said.

That was a joke. Richard Noonan smiled readily.

“As you like!”

It was devilishly uncomfortable on the desk, and his feet did not reach the floor.

“I’m sorry to tell you, Richard, that your report created an extremely favorable impression upstairs.”

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

“They were even going to recommend you for a decoration,” Mr. Lemchen continued. “However, I talked them into waiting on it. And I was right.” He tore himself away from contemplating the pattern of the ten fingers and looked up at Noonan. “You ask why I behaved in such a cautious manner?”

“You probably had some justification,” Noonan said in a dull tone.

“Yes, I had. What are the results of your report, Richard? The Métropole gang is liquidated. Through your efforts. The Green Flower gang was apprehended red-handed. Brilliant work. Also yours. Quasimodo, the Wandering Musicians, and all the other gangs, I don’t remember the names, disbanded because they knew the jig was up and they would be taken any day. All this really did happen, it’s all been verified by other sources. The battlefield was cleared. Your victory, Richard. The enemy retreated in disarray, suffering heavy losses. Have I given an accurate acount?”

“In any case,” Noonan said carefully, “during the last three months the flow of materials from the Zone through Harmont has stopped. At least according to my information.”

“The enemy has retreated, is that not so?”

“Well, if you insist on the metaphor, yes.”

“No! The point is that this enemy never retreats. I know that for sure. In rushing a victory report, Richard, you have demonstrated your lack of maturity. That is why I suggested they hold off rewarding you immediately.”

Go blow, you and your awards, thought Noonan, swinging his foot and glumly watching his shiny toe. Stick your awards in the cobwebs in the attic! And all I need is a little didacticism from you. I know who I’m dealing with without your lectures. Don’t tell me about the enemy. Just tell me straight out – when, where, and how I messed up, what those bastards managed to steal, where and how they found cracks – and without the bullshit, I’m no raw recruit, I’m over half a century old and I’m not sitting here for the sake of your stupid decorations and orders.

“What have you heard about the Golden Ball?” Mr. Lemchen suddenly asked.

God, what does the Golden Ball have to do with all this, Noonan thought in irritation. I wish you and your indirect manner would go to hell.

“The Golden Ball is a legend,” he reported in a dull voice. “A mythical artifact located in the Zone in the shape and form of a gold ball that grants human wishes.”

“Any wishes?”

“According to the canonic version of the legend, any wish. There are, however, variant versions.”

“All right. What have you heard about death lamps?”

“Eight years ago a stalker by the name of Stefan Norman, nicknamed Four-eyes, brought out an apparatus from the Zone that, as far as can be judged, was some kind of ray-emitting system fatal to earth organisms. This Four-eyes offered the apparatus to the institute. They did not agree on price. Four-eyes reentered the Zone and never came back. The present whereabouts of the apparatus is unknown. People at the institute are still tearing their hair out over it. Hugh from the Métropole, whom you know, offered any sum that could be written on a check.”

“Is that all?” Mr. Lemchen asked.

“That’s all.” Noonan was blatantly looking around the room. The room was boring, there was nothing to look at.

“All right. And what have you heard about lobster eyes?”

“What kind of eyes?”

“Lobster eyes. Lobsters. You know? With claws.”

Lemchen made clawlike movements with his fingers.

“I’ve never heard of them,” Noonan said frowing.

“And what about rattling napkins?”

Noonan climbed down from the desk and stood before Lemchen, hands in pockets.

“I don’t know a thing about them. How about you?”

“Unfortunately, neither do I. Nor about the lobster eyes or the rattling napkins. Nevertheless, they exist.”

“In my Zone?” Noonan asked.

“Sit down, sit down,” Mr. Lemchen said waving his hand. “Our little talk is just starting. Sit down.”

Noonan walked around the desk and sat on the hard chair with the straight back.

What’s he aiming at? he thought feverishly. What is all this new stuff? They probably found it in the other Zones and he’s trying to make a fool out of me, the ass. He never liked me, the old devil, he can’t forget the limerick.

“Let’s continue our little examination,” Lemchen announced as he drew aside an edge of the drape and peered out the window. “It’s pouring. I like it.” He released the curtain, sat back in his chair, and looking at the ceiling, asked: “How’s old Burbridge getting along?”

“Burbridge? Buzzard Burbridge is under surveillance. He’s a cripple, well-to-do. No connection with the Zone. He owns four bars and a dance school, and he organizes picnics for officers from the garrison and for tourists. His daughter Dina leads a dissolute life. His son Arthur just graduated from law school.”

Mr. Lemchen nodded in satisfaction. “And what is Creon the Maltese doing?”

“He is one of the few active stalkers. He was mixed up with the Quasimodo gang, and now he peddles his swag to the institute through me. I’m giving him a free rein: somebody will pick him off sooner or later. He’s been drinking a lot lately, and I’m afraid he won’t last too long.”

“Contact with Burbridge?”

“He’s courting Dina. No success.”

“Very good,” Mr. Lemchen said. “What do you hear about Red Schuhart?”

“He got out of prison last month. No financial difficulties. He tried to emigrate, but he has ... ” Noonan was silent. “Well, he has family problems. He has no time for the Zone.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

“Not much,” Mr. Lemchen said. “How are things with Lucky Carter?”

“He hasn’t been a stalker for many years. He sells used cars and he has a shop that converts cars to run on so-so’s. Four kids, his wife died last year. Has a mother-in-law.”

Lemchen nodded.

“Well, who have I forgotten of the oldsters?” he asked in a kindly tone.

“You forgot Jonathan Miles, known as Cactus. He’s in the hospital, dying of cancer. And you forgot Gutalin.”

“Yes, yes, what about Gutalin?”

“He’s still the same. He has a gang of three men. They go into the Zone for days at a time, destroying everything they come across. His old organization, the Fighting Angels, broke up.”

“Why?”

“Well, as you recall, they used to buy up swag and Gutalin would take it back into the Zone. The devil’s things to the devil. Now there’s nothing to buy, and besides, the new director of the institute got the cops on them.”

“I understand,” Mr. Lemchen said. “What about the young ones?”

“Well, the young ones, they come and go. There are five or six with some experience, but lately there’s been no one to fence the swag and they’re lost. I’m training them little by little. I think that stalking has almost disappeared in my Zone, chief. The old ones are retired, the young ones don’t know how, and the prestige of the trade is slipping. Technology is taking over. Now there are robot stalkers.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard about that. But the machines use up too much energy. Or am I mistaken?”

“It’s just a question of time. They’ll be worth it soon.”

“How soon?”

“Five or six years.”

Mr. Lemchen nodded again.

“By the way you probably don’t know that the enemy has started employing the automated stalkers?”

“In my Zone?” Noonan asked, on guard.

“In yours, too. They base themselves in Rexopolis, transfer the equipment by helicopter over the mountains to Snake Canyon, to Black Lake, and the foothills of Mount Boulder.”

“But that’s the periphery of the Zone,” Noonan said suspiciously. “It’s empty there. What could they find?”

“Little, very little. But they find it. Anyway, I was just informing you, it doesn’t concern you. Let’s recapitulate. There are almost no professional stalkers left in Harmont. The ones who have stayed have no relationship to the Zone any more. The young ones are lost and undergoing a process of being tamed. The enemy is shattered, scattered, and lying low somewhere licking his wounds. There is no swag, and when it does appear, there’s nobody to sell it to. The illegal removal of material from the Harmont Zone ceased three months ago. Correct?”

Noonan was silent. Now, he thought. Now he’s going to give it to me. But where was the gap? It must have been a really big one, too. Well, do it, you old fart! Don’t drag it out.

“I don’t hear your reply,” Mr. Lemchen said cupping his hand to his wrinkled hairy ear.

“All right, chief,” Noonan said somberly. “Enough. You’ve boiled and fried me, now serve me at the table.”

Mr. Lemchen harrumphed vaguely.

“You have absolutely nothing to say for yourself,” he said with unexpected bitterness. “You stand there flapping your ears before authority, how do you think I felt day before yesterday?” He interrupted himself, got up, and started for the safe. “In short, during the last two months, according to the information we have, the enemy has received more than six thousand items from the various Zones.” He stopped before the safe, patted its painted side, and turned sharply toward Noonan. “Don’t comfort yourself with illusions!” he shouted. “The fingerprints of Burbridge! The fingerprints of the Maltese! The fingerprints of Ben Halevy the Nose, whom you did not even bother to mention! The fingerprints of Hindus Heresh and Pygmy Zmyg! So that’s how you’re training your youths! Bracelets! Needles! White whirligigs! And on top of that – these lobsters’ eyes, and bitches’ rattles, and rattling napkins, whatever they are! The hell with them all!” He interrupted himself again, returned to his armchair, made a steeple with his fingers, and asked politely: “What do you think about all this, Richard?”

Noonan mopped his neck with his handkerchief.

“I don’t think anything about it,” he honestly answered. “Forgive me, chief, I’m a little ... let me catch my breath ... Burbridge! Burbridge has nothing to do with the Zone any more! I know his every step! He arranges picnics and drinking parties at lakesides. He’s hauling it in, he just doesn’t need the money. Excuse me, I know I’m blabbing nonsense, but I can assure you that I haven’t lost sight of Burbridge since he got out of the hospital.”

“I won’t keep you any longer,” Mr. Lemchen said. “I’m giving you a week. Come up with some ideas as to how the material from the Zone gets into the hands of Burbridge – and all the others. Goodbye.”

Noonan rose, nodded to Lemchen’s profile, and still wiping his sweating neck, went out into the reception area. The tan young man was smoking, thoughtfully gazing into the bowels of the mangled electronic device. He glanced over at Noonan – his eyes were empty and seemed to gaze inward.

Richard Noonan shoved his hat on his head, grabbed his raincoat, and went outside. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. His thoughts were confused and rambling. I must – Ben Halevy the Nose! He’s even gotten himself a nickname! When? He’s just a little punk, a snotty-nosed little punk. No, there’s something else going on! You legless shmuck. Buzzard, you really got me this time. Caught me with my pants down. How could it have happened? Just like that time in Singapore – face flat on the table, then slammed against the wall ... 

He got in the car and for some time looked around the dashboard for the ignition key, forgetting everything. Rain was dripping from his hat onto his lap. He took it off and tossed it into the back without looking. Rain was streaming across the windshield, and Richard Noonan thought that it was keeping him from understanding what his next step should be. He punched himself in the head. He felt better. He immediately remembered that there was no key and couldn’t be any because the so-so was in his pocket. The permanent battery. And you have to take it out of your pocket, dummy, and stick it into the jack, and then at least you’ll be able to drive somewhere – somewhere far away from this building where the old bastard was probably watching from a window.

Noonan’s hand froze as it was reaching for the so-so. Now I know who to begin with. I’ll begin with him, oh how I’ll begin with him. Nobody’s ever begun with anybody the way I’ll begin with him. And it’ll be a pleasure. He turned on the wipers and drove down the avenue, seeing almost nothing in front of him, but slowly calming down. All right. Let it be like it was in Singapore. After all, it ended well in Singapore. So what, I got my face slammed down on the table one lousy time! It could have been worse. It could have been some other part of me and it could have been something with nails in it instead of a table. All right, let’s stay on the track. Where’s my little establishment? Can’t see a damn thing. Ah, here it is.

It wasn’t business hours, but the Five Minutes was as lit up as the Métropole. Shaking himself like a dog coming out of the water, Richard Noonan entered the brightly lit room that reeked of tobacco, perfume, and stale champagne. Old Benny, not in uniform yet, was sitting at the counter eating something, his fork in his fist. Spreading out her huge breasts on the counter among the empty glasses, Madame watched him eat. The room had not yet been cleaned up from last night. When Noonan walked in, Madame turned her broad, heavily made-up face toward him. It was angry at first, but immediately dissolved into a professional smile.