Roadside Picnic

He didn't meet anyone on the stairs. He stopped in front of his door and it flew open before he had time to get his keys. He walked in sideways, holding the heavy basket under his arm, and immersed himself in the warmth and familiar smells of home. Guta threw her arms around his neck and froze with her face on his chest. He could feel her heart beating wildly even through his jumpsuit and heavy shirt. He didn't rush her—he stood patiently and waited for her to calm down, even though he fully sensed for the first time just then how tired and worn out he was.

"All right,” she finally said in a low husky voice and let go of him. She turned on the light in the entry and went into the kitchen. “I'll have the coffee ready in a minute,” she called.

"I've brought some fish,” he said in an artificially hearty tone. “Fry it up, won't you, I'm starved."

She came back, hiding her face in her loosened hair; he set the basket on the floor, helped her take out the net with the fish, and they both carried the net to the kitchen and dumped the fish into the sink.

"Go wash up,” she said. “By the time you're ready, the fish will be done."

"How's Monkey?” Redrick asked, pulling off his boots.

"She was babbling all evening,” Guta replied. “I barely got her to go to bed. She keeps asking, where's daddy, where's daddy? She wants her daddy all the time."

She moved swiftly and quietly in the kitchen, strong and graceful. The water was boiling in the pan on the stove and the scales were flying under her knife, and the butter was sizzling in the largest pan, and there was the exhilarating smell of fresh coffee in the air.

Redrick walked in his bare feet to the entry hall, took the basket and brought it to the storeroom. Then he looked into the bedroom. Monkey was sleeping peacefully, her crumpled blanket hanging on the floor. Her nightie had ridden up. She was warm and soft, a little animal breathing heavily. Redrick could not resist the temptation to stroke her back covered with warm golden fur, and was amazed for the thousandth time by the fur's silkiness and length. He wanted to pick up Monkey badly, but he was afraid it would wake her up—besides, he was as dirty as hell and permeated with death and the Zone. He came back into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

"Pour me a cup of coffee. I'll wash up later."

A bundle of evening mail was on the table: The Harmont Gazette, Sports, Playboy—there was a whole bunch of magazines—and the thick gray-covered Reports of the International Institute of Extraterrestrial Cultures, issue 56. Redrick took a mug of steaming coffee from Guta and reached for the Reports. Squiggles and markings, blueprints of some kind, and photographs of familiar objects from strange angles. Another posthumous article by Kirill: “An Unexpected Property of the Magnetic Trap Type-77b.” The surname Panov was framed in black and below in tiny type it said: “Dr. Kirill A. Panov, USSR, perished tragically during an experiment in April 19 … ” Redrick tossed away the journal, gulped some coffee, burning his mouth, and asked: “Did anyone drop by?"

"Gutalin was here,” Guta said, after a slight pause. She was standing by the stove and looking at him. “He was stinking drunk, I sobered him up."

"How about Monkey?"

"She didn't want to let him go, of course. She started bawling. But I told her that Uncle Gutalin wasn't feeling very well. And she told me, 'Gutalin's smashed again.' “

Redrick laughed and took another sip. Then he asked another question.

"What about the neighbors?"

Guta hesitated again before answering. “Like always,” she finally said. “All right, don't tell me."

"Ah!” she said, waving her hand in disgust. “The woman from below knocked at our door last night. Her eyes were bulging and she was practically spitting with anger. Why are we sawing in the bathroom in the middle of the night?"

"The dangerous old bitch,” Redrick said through his teeth. “Listen, maybe we should move? Buy a house somewhere out in the country, where there's no one else, some old abandoned cottage?"

"What about Monkey?"

"God, don't you think the two of us could make her life good?” Guta shook her head.

"She loves children. And they love her. It's not their fault that … "

"No, it's not their fault."

"There's no use talking about it!” Guta said. “Somebody called you. Didn't leave a name. I told him you were out fishing."