Roadside Picnic

"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.