Roadside Picnic

"No, buddy, not an informer. Listen. I chatted for a bit, carefully, of course, led him on. He's interested in certain objects in the Zone. Serious ones, at that. Batteries, itchers, black sprays, and other such baubles do nothing for him. He only hinted at what he did want."

"What was it?"

"Witches' jelly, as far as I could understand,” Dick said and looked at me strangely.

"Oh, so he wants the witches' jelly, does he? How about some death lamps while he's at it?"

"I asked him the same thing."

"And?"

"Would you believe that he wants some, too."

"Yes?” I said. “Well, let him go get it himself. It's a snap. There are cellars full of witches' jelly. Let him take a bucket and bail out as much as he wants. It's his funeral."

Dick said nothing and watched me without even smiling. What the hell was he thinking? Was he thinking of hiring me? And then I got it.

"Hold on,” I said. “Who was that guy? You're not allowed to study the jelly even at the institute."

"Right.” Dick was speaking slowly and watching me. “It's research that holds potential danger for mankind. Now do you understand who that was?"

I understood nothing.

"The Visitors, you mean?"

He laughed, patted my hand, and said:

"Why don't we just have a drink instead. You're such a simple soul!"

"OK by me,” I said. But I was angry. The sons of bitches think I'm such a simpleton, eh? “Hey, Gutalin,” I said. “Gutalin! Wake up, let's drink!"

Gutalin was fast asleep. His black cheek lay on the black tabletop and his hands drooped down to the floor. Dick and I had a drink without him.

"All right, now,” I said. “Simple soul or complicated, I'll tell you what I would do about that guy. You know how much love I have for the police, but I'd turn him in."

"Sure. And the police would ask you why this guy turned to you rather than someone else. Then what?"

I shook my head.

"It doesn't matter. You, you fat jerk, you've only been in the city three years and haven't been in the Zone once. You've only seen the witches' jelly in the movies. You should see it in real life and what it does to a human being. It's a horrible thing and it shouldn't be brought out of the Zone. You know yourself that stalkers are a rough bunch, all they want is money and more money, but even the late Slimy wouldn't have gone in on a deal like that. Buzzard Burbridge wouldn't go for it either. I hate to think who would need witches' jelly and for what."

"Well, you're right about all that,” said Dick. “But you see, I'd hate to be found one morning in bed having committed suicide. I'm not a stalker, but I am a practical person anyway, and I like living, you know. I've been doing it for a long time and I've gotten into the habit."

Ernest shouted from the bar:

"Mr. Noonan! Telephone!"

"What the hell!” Dick said angrily. “Must be Shipping Adjustment again. They find you everywhere. Excuse me, Red."

He got up and went to the phone. I stayed behind with Gutalin and the bottle, and since Gutalin was of no help at all, I attacked the bottle on my own. Goddamn that Zone. You can't get away from it. Wherever you go, whoever you talk to, it's always the Zone, the Zone, the Zone. It's easy for Kirill to talk about the eternal peace and harmony that will come from the Zone. Kirill is a fine fellow and no fool—on the contrary, he's really bright—but he doesn't know a damn thing about life. He can't even imagine what kind of scum and criminals hang around the Zone. Now somebody wants to get his hands on the witches' jelly. Gutalin may be a drunk and a religious nut, but maybe he's got something there. Maybe we should leave the devil's things to the devil? Hands off.

Some punk in a bright scarf sat in Dick's chair.

"Mr. Schuhart?"

"So what?"

"My name is Creon. I'm from Malta."

"So how are things in Malta?"

"Things are fine in Malta, but that's not what I wanted to talk about. Ernest put me on to you."

So, I thought. That Ernest really was a bastard. Not a drop of pity in him. Here's this young guy—tan, and clean, and pretty. Hasn't ever shaved or kissed a girl. But Ernest doesn't care. He just wants to send more people into the Zone. One out of three will come back with swag, and that's money for him.

"So how's old Ernest?” I asked.

He looked over at the bar.

"He looks well. I wouldn't mind trading places with him."

"I would. Want a drink?"

"Thanks, I don't drink."

"A smoke?"

"Forgive me, but I don't smoke, either."

"Damn you then. What the hell do you need the money for?"

He blushed and stopped smiling.

"Probably,” he said in a low voice, “that concerns only me, doesn't it, Mr. Schuhart?"

"You're absolutely right,” I said and poured myself another four fingers. My head was beginning to buzz and I was feeling a nice looseness in my limbs. The Zone had let go of me completely. “I'm drunk right now. I'm celebrating, as you can see. I went into the Zone and came back alive and with money. It doesn't happen very often that people come back alive and even more rarely that they come back with money. So why don't we postpone any serious discussions."