“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.
3. RICHARD H. NOONAN, AGE 51, SUPERVISOR OF ELECTRONIC EQUIPMENT SUPPLIES FOR THE HARMONT BRANCH OF THE IIEC
Richard H. Noonan was sitting at the desk in his study doodling on the legal size pad. He was also smiling sympathetically, nodding his bald head, and not listening to his visitor. He was simply waiting for a telephone call, and his visitor, Dr. Pilman, was lazily lecturing him. Or imagining that he was lecturing him. Or trying to convince himself that he was lecturing him.
“We’ll keep all that in mind,” Noonan finally said, crossing out another group of five lines and flipping down the pad’s cover. “It really is shocking.”
Valentine’s slender hand neatly flicked the ashes from his cigarette into the ashtray.
“And what precisely will you keep in mind?” he inquired politely.
“Why, everything that you said,” Noonan answered cheerfully, leaning back in his armchair. “To the very last word.”
“And what did I say?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Noonan said. “We’ll keep whatever you say in mind.”
Valentine (Dr. Valentine Pilman, Nobel Prize winner) was sitting in front of him in a deep armchair. He was small, delicate, and neat. There wasn’t a stain on his suede jacket or a wrinkle in his trousers. A blindingly white shirt, a severe solid-colored tie, shining shoes. A malicious smile on his thin pale lips and enormous dark glasses over his eyes. His low broad forehead was topped with a bristly crewcut.
“In my opinion, you’re being paid a fantastic salary for nothing,” he said. “And on top of that, in my opinion, you’re a saboteur as well, Dick.”
“Shhhhhh!” Noonan whispered. “For God’s sake, not so loud.”
“Actually,” Valentine continued, “I’ve been watching you for a long time. In my opinion, you don’t work at all.”
“Just a minute here!” Noonan interrupted and waved his pink finger at him. “What do you mean I don’t work? Is there even one replacement order that hasn’t been handled?”
“I don’t know,” Valentine said and flicked his ash again. “We get good equipment and we get bad equipment. We get the good stuff more often, but what you have to do with it I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Well, if it weren’t for me,” Noonan countered, “the good stuff would be much rarer. And besides, you scientists are always breaking the good equipment, and then calling for a replacement, and who covers for you then? For example…”
The phone rang and Noonan broke off and grabbed the receiver. “Mr. Noonan?” the secretary asked. “Mr. Lemchen again.”
“Put him on.”
Valentine got up, brought two fingers to his forehead as a sign of farewell, and went out. Small, straight, and well-proportioned. “Mr. Noonan?” the familiar drawling voice spoke in the phone. “I’m listening.”
“You’re not easy to reach at work, Mr. Noonan.”
“A new shipment has arrived.”
“Yes, I know about it already. Mr. Noonan, I’m here only for a short time. There are a few questions that must be discussed in person. I’m referring to the latest contracts with Mitsubishi Denshi. The legal side.”
“At your service.”
“Then, if you have no objection, be at our offices in a half hour. Is that convenient?”
“Perfect. In a half hour.”
Richard Noonan hung up, stood, and rubbing his plump hands, walked around the office. He even began singing some pop ditty, but broke off on a particularly sour note and jovially laughed at himself. He picked up his hat, tossed his raincoat over his arm, and went out into the reception area.
“Honey,” he said to the secretary, “I’m off to see some clients. You stay here, hold the fort, as they say, and I’ll bring you a present when I get back.”
She blossomed. Noonan blew her a kiss and rolled out into the corridors of the institute. Attempts were made to stop him a few times—he wangled out of conversations, joking, asking people to hold the fort without him, to keep their cool, and finally emerged unscathed and uncaught, waving his unopened pass under the nose of the sergeant on duty.
Heavy clouds hung low over the city. It was muggy and the first hesitant drops of rain were scattering on the sidewalk like little black stars. Spreading his coat over his head and shoulders, Noonan trotted past the long row of cars to his Peugeot, dove in, and tossed the coat in the back seat. He took out the round black stick of the so-so from his suit pocket, put it in the jack in the dashboard, and pushed it in to the hilt with his thumb. He wriggled around, getting more comfortable behind the wheel, and pressed the accelerator pedal. The Peugeot silently drove out into the middle of the street and raced toward the exit from the Pre-Zone Area.
The rain came pouring down suddenly, as though a bucket had been overturned in the sky. The road got slippery and the car swerved at corners. Noonan turned on the wipers and slowed down. So, he thought, they got the report. Now they’ll be praising me. Well, I’m all for that. I like being praised. Especially by Mr. Lemchen himself. In spite of himself. Strange isn’t it? Why do we like being praised? It doesn’t get you any more money. Glory? What kind of glory can we have? “He’s famous: three people know about him now.” Well, let’s say four, counting Bayliss. What a funny creature man is! It seems we enjoy praise just for itself. The way children like ice cream. And it’s so stupid. How can I be better in my own eyes? As if I didn’t know myself? Good old fat Richard H. Noonan? By the way, what does that “H” stand for? What do you know about that? And there’s nobody to ask, either. I can’t ask Mr. Lemchen about it. Oh, I remember! Herbert! Richard Herbert Noonan. Boy, it’s pouring.
He turned onto Central and suddenly thought how the city had grown over the past few years. Huge skyscrapers. They’re building another one over there. What will it be? Oh, the Luna Complex—the world’s best jazz, and a variety show, and so on. Everything for our glorious troops and our brave tourists, especially the elderly ones, and for the noble knights of science. And the suburbs are being emptied.
Yes, I’d like to know how this will all end. Well, ten years ago, I was sure I knew. Impenetrable police lines. DMZ twenty miles wide. Scientists and soldiers, and no one else. The horrible sore on the face of the earth blocked off. And I wasn’t the only one who thought that way, either. All the speechifying, all the legislation they introduced! And now you can’t even remember how the universal steely resolve melted into a quivering pool of jelly. “On the one hand, you can’t not acknowledge it, and on the other, you can’t disagree.” It all began, I think, when the stalkers first brought out the so-so’s from the Zone. Little batteries. Yes, I think that’s when it happened. Particularly, when it was discovered that the batteries multiplied. The sore didn’t seem like such a sore any more. More like a treasure trove, Hell’s temptation, Pandora’s box, or the devil. They found ways to use it. Twenty years they’ve been puffing and huffing, wasting billions, and they still haven’t been able to organize their thievery. Everyone has his own little business, and the scientists furrow their brows significantly and portentously: on the one hand, you can’t not acknowledge it, and on the other, you can’t disagree. Since such and such object, when X-rayed at an angle of 18 degrees emits quasither-mal electrons at an angle of 22 degrees. The hell with it! I won’t live to see the end of it anyway.
The car was passing Buzzard Burbridge’s townhouse. Because of the pouring rain, all the lights in the house were on. He could see dancing couples in the second-floor rooms of the beautiful Dina. Either they had started very early, or they were still going strong from last night. That was the new fad in the city—to have parties that went on for several days. We sure are growing hardy kids, full
of endurance and steadfast in the pursuit of their desires.
Noonan stopped the car in front of an unsightly building with a discreet sign: “Legal offices of Korsh, Korsh, and Simak.” He took out the so-so and put it in his pocket, pulled on his raincoat again, took his hat, and ran for the entrance. He ran past the doorman, buried in a newspaper, up the stairs covered with a worn carpet. His shoes clattered along the dark corridor of the second floor, which reeked of an odor that he had long ago given up trying to identify, and he threw open the door at the end of the corridor and went in. Instead of the secretary there was a very tan, unfamiliar young man at the desk. He was in shirtsleeves. He was digging around in the guts of some electronic device that was set up on the desk instead of the typewriter. Richard Noonan hung up his coat and hat, smoothed what was left of his hair with both hands, and looked inquiringly at the young man. He nodded. Noonan opened the door to the office.
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 ha
s 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.
Roadside Picnic Page 11
