Roadside Picnic

"But surely you have been carefully following the international research in the Visitation Zones?"

"Yes. Once in a while I read the Reports."

"You mean the Reports of the International Institute of Extraterrestrial Cultures?"

"Yes."

"And what, in your opinion, has been the most important discovery in these thirty years?"

"The fact of the Visitation itself."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The fact of the Visitation itself is the most important discovery not only of the past thirty years but of the entire history of mankind. It's not so important to know just who these visitors were. It's not important to know where they came from, why they came, why they spent so little time here, or where they disappeared to since. The important thing is that humanity now knows for sure: we are not alone in the universe. I fear that the Institute of Extraterrestrial Cultures will never be fortunate enough to make a more fundamental discovery."

"This is very fascinating, Dr. Pilman, but actually I was thinking more of advances and discoveries of a technological nature. Discoveries that our earth scientists and engineers could use. After all, many very important scientists have proposed that the discoveries made in the Visitation Zones are capable of changing the entire course of our history."

"Well, I don't subscribe to that point of view. And as for specific discoveries—that's not my field."

"Yet for the past two years you've been Canadian consultant to the UN Commission on Problems of the Visitation."

"Yes. But I have nothing to do with the study of extraterrestrial cultures. On the commission my colleagues and I represent the international scientific community when questions come up on implementing UN decisions regarding the internationalization of the Zones. Roughly speaking, we make sure that the extraterrestrial marvels found in the Zones come into the hands of the International Institute."

"Is there anyone else after these treasures?"

"Yes."

"You probably mean stalkers!"

"I don't know what they are."

"That's what we in Harmont call the thieves who risk their lives in the Zone to grab everything they can lay their hands on. It's become a whole new profession."

"I understand. No, that's not within our competence."

"I should think not. That's police business. But I would be interested in knowing just what does fall within your competence, Dr. Pilman."

"There is a steady leak of materials from the Visitation Zones into the hands of irresponsible persons and organizations. We deal with the results of these leaks."

"Could you be a little more specific, doctor?"

"Can't we talk about the arts instead? Wouldn't the listeners care to know my opinion of the incomparable Gôdi Müller?"

"Of course! But I would like to finish with science first. As a scientist, aren't you drawn to dealing with the extraterrestrial treasures yourself?"

"How can I put it? I suppose so."

"Then, we can hope that one fine day Harmonites will see their famous fellow citizen on the streets of his home town?"

"It's not impossible."

1. REDRICK SCHUHART, AGE 23, BACHELOR, LABORATORY ASSISTANT AT THE HARMONT BRANCH OF THE INTERNATIONAL INSTITUTE FOR EXTRATERRESTRIAL CULTURES

The night before, he and I were in the repository—it was already evening, all I had to do was throw off my lab suit and I could head for the Borscht to put a drop or two of the stiff stuff into my system. I was just standing there, holding up the wall, my work all done and a cigarette in my hand. I was dying for a smoke—it was two hours since I'd had one, and he was still puttering around with his stuff. He had loaded, locked, and sealed one safe and was loading up the other one—taking the empties from the transporter, examining each one from every angle (and they're heavy little bastards, by the way, fifteen pounds each), and carefully replacing them on the shelf.

He had been struggling with those empties forever, and the way I see it, without any benefit to humanity or himself. In his shoes, I would have said screw it long ago and gone to work on something else for the same money. Of course, on the other hand, if you think about it, an empty really is something mysterious and maybe even incomprehensible. I've handled quite a few of them, but I'm still surprised every time I see one. They're just two copper disks the size of a saucer, about a quarter inch thick, with a space of a foot and a half between them. There's nothing else. I mean absolutely nothing, just empty space. You can stick your hand in them, or even your head, if you're so knocked out by the whole thing—just emptiness and more emptiness, thin air. And for all that, of course, there is some force between them, as I understand it, because you can't press them together, and no one's been able to pull them apart, either.