Roadside Picnic

by Arkady Strugatsky

  “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.

  “Hi!” she said in her deep voice. “Mr. Noonan himself! Missed the girls?”

  Benny went on eating; he was as deaf as a doornail.

  “Greetings, old lady! What do I need with the girls when I have a real woman in front of me?”

  Benny finally noticed him. His horrible face, covered with blue and purple scars, contorted into a welcoming smile.

  “Hello, boss! Came in out of the rain?”

  Noonan smiled in return and waved. He did not like talking with Benny: he had to shout all the time.

  “Where’s my manager, folks?” he asked.

  “In his room,” Madame answered. “He has to pay the taxes tomorrow.

  “Oh, those taxes! All right. Madame, please fix my favorite. I’ll be right back.”

  Stepping soundlessly on the thick synthetic carpeting, he went down the hallway past the draped doorways of the cubicles—a picture of some flower painted on the wall next to each one—turned into a quiet dead end, and opened the leather-covered door without knocking.

  Mosul Kitty sat behind the desk, examining a painful sore on his nose in the mirror. He did not give a damn that he had to pay the taxes tomorrow. The completely bare desk top held only a jar with mercury salve and a glass with a clear liquid. Mosul Kitty raised his bloodshot eyes at Noonan and jumped up, dropping the mirror. Wordlessly, Noonan settled into the armchair opposite him and silently watched, while he muttered something about the damn rain and his rheumatism. Then he said:

  “Why don’t you lock the door, pal.”

  Mosul, his flat feet slapping the floor, ran up to the door, turned the key, and returned to the desk. His hairy head towered over Noonan, and he stared loyally into his mouth. Noonan kept watching him through half-shut eyes. For some reason he remembered that Mosul Kitty’s real name was Raphael. Mosul was famous for his huge bony fists, purplish and bare, that stuck out from the thick hair that covered his arms like sleeves. He had called himself Kitty because he was convinced that that was the traditional name of the great Mongol kings. Raphael. Well, Raphael baby, let’s get started.

  “How are things?” he asked gently.

  “In perfect order, boss,” Raphael-Mosul replied rapidly.

  “You smoothed over the problem at headquarters?
”

  “It cost 150. Everybody is happy.”

  “It comes out of your pocket. It was your fault, pal. It should have been taken care of.”

  Mosul made a pathetic face and spread his hands in a sign of submission.

  “The parquet in the hall should be replaced,” Noonan said.

  “It will be done.”

  Noonan said nothing, puckered his lips.

  “Swag?” he asked, lowering his voice.

  “There’s a little,” Mosul replied in a low voice, too.

  “Let’s see it.”

  Mosul rushed over to the safe, took out a package, and opened it on the desk in front of Noonan. Noonan felt around with one finger in the pile of black sprays, picked up a bracelet, examined it from all sides and put it back.

  “This is all?”

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

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

  He aimed carefully and jabbed his toe with all his strength into Mosul’s shin. Mosul grunted and bent over to grab the injured spot, but immediately straightened out and stood at attention. Then Noonan jumped up, grabbed Mosul by his collar and came at him, kicking, rolling his eyes, and whispering obscenities. Mosul, moaning and groaning, rearing his head like a frightened horse, backed away from him until he fell onto the couch.

  “Working both sides, eh? You son of a bitch.” Noonan was hissing right into his terrified eyes. “Buzzard Burbridge is swimming in swag and you give me beads wrapped in paper?” He smacked him in the face, trying to hit the scab on his nose. “I’ll ship you off to jail. You’ll be living in manure, eating dry bread. You’ll curse the day you were born!” He punched the sore nose one more time. “Where does Burbridge get the swag? Why do they bring it to him, and not to you? Who brings it? Why don’t I know anything? Who are you working for, you filthy pig? Talk!”

  Mosul soundlessly opened and shut his mouth. Noonan let go of him, returned to the chair, and put his feet up on the desk. “Well?” he said.

  Mosul sniffled back the-blood from his nose and said: “Honest, boss, what’s the matter? What swag can Buzzard have? He doesn’t have any. Nobody’s got swag.”

  “What, are you going to argue with me?” Noonan asked gently, taking his feet off the desk.

  “No, no, boss, honest,” Mosul hurried to say. “Me argue with you? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “I’m going to get rid of you,” Noonan threatened. “You don’t know how to work. What the hell do I need you for, you so-and-so? Guys like you are a dime a dozen. I need a real man for real work.”

  “Hold on, boss,” Mosul said reasonably, smearing blood all over his face. “Why do you attack me all of a sudden? Let’s work this out.” He touched his nose gingerly. “You say Burbridge has a lot of swag? I don’t know, somebody’s been lying to you. Nobody’s got any swag now. After all, only punks go into the Zone now, and they’re the only ones coming out. Nope, boss, someone’s lied to you.”

  Noonan was watching him covertly. It looked as if Mosul really didn’t know a thing. It wouldn’t have paid him to lie, anyway—Buzzard Burbridge didn’t pay very well.

  “These picnics, are they profitable?”

  “The picnics? I don’t think so. You won’t shovel in the money. But there aren’t any profitable things left in town.”

  “Where are these picnics held?”

  “Where? You know, in different places. By White Mountain, at the Hot Springs, at Rainbow Lake.”

  “Who are the customers?”

  “The customers?” Mosul sniffed, blinked, and spoke confidentially. “If you’re planning to get into the business yourself, boss, I wouldn’t recommend it. You won’t make much up against Buzzard.”

  “Why not?”

  “Buzzard’s customers are the blue helmets, one.” Mosol was ticking the points off on his fingers. “Officers from the command post, two. Tourists from the Métropole, the White Lily, and the Plaza, three. Then he’s got good advertising. Even the locals go to him. Honest, boss, it’s not worth getting mixed up in this business. He doesn’t pay us that much for the girls, you know.”

  “The locals go to him, too?”

  “The young people, mostly.”

  “Well, what happens on these picnics?”

  “What happens? We go there on buses, see? And when we get there everything is set up—tables, tents, music. And everyone lives it up. The officers usually go with the girls. The tourists go look at the Zone—if it’s at the Hot Springs, the Zone is just a stone’s throw away, on the other side of the Sulphur Gorge. Buzzard has thrown a lot of horse bones around there and they look at them through binoculars.”

  “And the locals?”

  “The locals? Well, that doesn’t interest the locals, of course. They amuse themselves in other ways.”

  “And Burbridge?”

  “Burbridge? Burbridge… is like everybody else.”

  “And you?”

  “Me? I’m like everybody else. I watch to see that the girls aren’t hurt… and, well, like everybody else, basically.”

  “And how long does all this go on?”

  “Depends. Three days, sometimes, sometimes a whole week.”

  “And how much does this pleasure trip cost?” Noonan asked, thinking about something else entirely. Mosul answered something, but Noonan didn’t hear him. That’s the ticket, Noonan thought. Several days, several nights. Under those conditions, it’s simply impossible to keep an eye on Burbridge, even if you tried. But still he didn’t understand. Burbridge was legless, and there was the gorge. No, there was something else there.

  “Which locals are steady customers?”

  “Locals? I told you, mostly the young ones. You know, Halevy, Rajba, Chicken Tsapfa, that Zmyg guy—and the Maltese often goes. A cute little group. They call it Sunday school. Shall we go to Sunday school, they say. They concentrate on the old ladies, make pretty good money. Some old broad from Europe…”

  “Sunday school,” Noonan repeated.

  A strange thought came to him. School. He rose.

  “All right,” he said. “The hell with the picnics. That’s not for us. But get it straight: Buzzard has swag, and that’s our business, pal. Look for it, Mosul, look for it, or I’ll throw you to the dogs. Where does he get it, who gives it to him? Find out and we’ll give twenty percent more than he does. Got it?”

  “Got it, boss.” Mosul was standing, too, at attention, loyalty on his blood-smeared face.

  “Move it! Use your brains, you animal!” Noonan shouted and left.

  Back at the bar he quickly drank his aperitif, had a chat with Madame about the decline in morality, hinted that he was planning to expand the operation, and lowering his voice for emphasis, asked for her advice on what to do about Benny—the old guy was getting old, he was deaf, his reaction time was off, and he didn’t get along like he used to. It was six already and he was hungry. A thought was drilling through his brain, out of nowhere but at the same time explaining a lot. Actually, a lot had become clear by now anyway and the mystical aura that irritated and frightened him about this business was gone. All that was left was disappointment in himself because he had not thought of the possibility earlier. But the most important thing was the thought that kept floating in his head and giving him no peace.

  He said good-bye to Madame and shook Benny’s hand, and headed straight for the Borscht. The whole trouble is that we don’t notice the years slipping by, Noonan thought. The hell with the years, we don’t notice everything changing. We know that everything changes, we’re taught from childhood that everything changes, and we’ve seen everything change with our own eyes many a time, and yet we’re totally incapable of recognizing the moment when the change comes or else we look for the change in the wrong place. There are new stalkers now, created by cybernetics. The old stalker was a dirty, sullen man who crawled inch by inch through the Zone on his belly with mulish stubbornness, gathering his nest egg. The new stalker was a dandy in a
silk tie, an engineer sitting a mile or so away from the Zone, a cigarette in his mouth, a glass with a pleasant brew at his elbow, and all he does is sit and monitor some screens. A salaried gentleman. A very logical picture. So logical that any alternative just did not come to mind. But there were other possibilities—the Sunday school, for one.

  And suddenly, from nowhere, a wave of despair engulfed him. It was all useless. Pointless. My God, he thought, we won’t be able to do a thing! We won’t have the power to contain this blight, he thought in horror. Not because we don’t work well. And not because they’re smarter and more clever either. It’s just that that’s the way the world is. And that’s the way man is in this world. If there had never been the Visitation, there would have been something else. Pigs always find mud.

  The Borscht was lit up and gave off a delicious smell. The Borscht had changed, too. No more dancing, no more fun. Gutalin didn’t go there any more, he was turned off by it, and Redrick Schuhart probably had stuck his nose in, made a face, and left. Ernest was still in stir and his old lady finally got to run the place. She built up a solid steady clientele; the entire institute lunched there, including the senior officers. The booths were cozy, the food good, the prices reasonable, and the beer bubbly. A good old-fashioned pub.

  Noonan saw Valentine Pilman in one of the booths. The laureate was drinking coffee and reading a magazine he had folded in half. Noonan approached him.

  “May I join you?”

  Valentine turned his dark glasses on him.

  “Ah,” he said. “Please do.”

  “Just a second, I’ll wash up first.” He had remembered Mosul’s nose.

  He was well known there. When he got back to Valentine’s booth, there was a plate of steaming sausages and a mug of beer—not cold and not warm, just the way he liked it—on the table. Valentine put down the magazine and took a sip of coffee.

  “Listen, Valentine,” Noonan said, cutting the meat. “What do you think, how will all this end?”

  “What?”

  “The Visitation. The Zones, the stalkers, the military-industrial complexes—the whole lot. How can it all end?”