Roadside Picnic

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."