Roadside Picnic

by Arkady Strugatsky

  “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?”