He went into the living toom and slammed the bottle on the table.
“We’re going to celebrate, pops!” he said to the motionless old man. “This here is Richard Noonan, our friend! Dick, this is my pop, Schuhart Senior.”
Richard Noonan, his mind rolled up into an impenetrable ball, grinned from ear to ear, waved, and said in the direction of the moulage:
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Schuhart. How are you? You know, we’ve met before, Red,” he said to Schuhart, Jr., who was puttering at the bar. “We saw each other once, but very briefly, of course.”
“Sit down,” Redrick said to him, indicating the chair opposite the old man. “If you’re going to talk to him, speak up. He can’t hear a thing.”
He set up the glasses, quickly opened the bottle, and turned to Noonan.
“You pour. Just a little for pops, just cover the bottom.”
Noonan took his time pouring. The old man sat in the same position, staring at the wall. And he did not react when Noonan moved his glass closer to him. Noonan had already adjusted to the new situation. It was a game, terrible and pathetic. Red was playing the game, and he joined in, as he had always joined other peoples’ games all his life—terrifying ones, pathetic ones, shameful ones, and ones much more dangerous than this. Redrick raised his glass and said: “Well, I guess we’re off?” Noonan looked over at the old man in a completely natural manner. Redrick impatiently clinked his glass against Noonan’s and said: “We’re off, we’re off.” Then Noonan nodded, completely naturally, and they drank.
Redrick, eyes shining, began to talk in his excited and slightly artificial tone.
“That’s it, brother! Jail will never see me again. If you only knew how good it is to be home; I have the dough and I’ve picked out a new little cottage for myself, with a garden—as good as Buzzard’s place. You know, I had wanted to emigrate, I had decided when I was still in jail. I mean, what was I sitting in this lousy two-bit town for? I thought, let the whole place drop dead. So I get back, and there’s a surprise for me—emigration has been forbidden! Have we suddenly become plague-ridden during the last two years?”
He talked and talked, and Noonan nodded, sipped his whiskey, and interjected sympathetic noises and rhetorical questions. Then he started asking about the cottage—what kind was it, where was it, what did it cost?—and then they argued. Noonan insisted that the cottage was expensive and inconveniently located. He took out his address book, flipped through it, and named the locations of abandoned cottages that were being sold for a song. And the repairs would be almost free, because he could apply for emigration, be turned down, and sue for compensation, which would pay for the repairs.
“I see that you’re involved in nonemigration, too.”
“I’m involved in everything a little,” Noonan replied with a wink.
“I know, I know, I’ve heard all about your affairs.”
Noonan put on a wide-eyed look of surprise, raised his finger to his pursed lips, and nodded in the direction of the kitchen.
“All right, don’t worry, everybody knows about it,” Redrick said. “Money never stinks. I know that for sure now. But getting Mosul to be your manager. I almost fell on the floor laughing when I heard! Letting a bull into the china shop. He’s a psycho, you know. I’ve known him since we were kids.”
He fell silent and looked at the old man. A shudder crossed his face, and Noonan was amazed to see the look of real, sincere love and tenderness on that tough freckled mug of his.
Watching him, Noonan remembered what had happened when Boyd’s lab workers showed up here for the moulage. There were two lab assistants, both strong young men, athletes and all that, and a doctor from the city hospital with two orderlies, tough and rough burly guys used to lugging heavy stretchers and overpowering hysterical patients. One of the lab assistants later told him that “that redhead” at first didn’t seem to understand what was going on, because he let them into the apartment to examine his father. They probably would have gotten the old man away, because it looked as if Redrick thought that they were putting his old man in the hospital for observation. But the stupid orderlies, who had spent their time during the preliminary negotiations gawking at Guta washing the kitchen windows, grabbed the old man like a log when they were called in—and dropped him on the floor. Redrick went crazy. Then the jerk of a doctor volunteered an explanation of what was going on. Redrick listened for a minute or two and suddenly exploded without any warning like a hydrogen bomb. The assistant who told the story did not remember how he ended up on the street. The red devil got them all down the stairs, all five of them, and not one left under his own power. They all shot out of the foyer like cannonballs. Two ended up unconscious on the sidewalk and Redrick chased the other three for four blocks. Then he returned and bashed in all the windows on the institute car—the driver had made a run for it when he saw what was happening.
“I learned how to make a new cocktail at this bar,” Redrick was saying as he poured more whiskey. “It’s called Witches’ Jelly, I’ll make you one later, after we’ve eaten. Brother, it’s not something you should have on an empty stomach—it’s dangerous to the health: one drink makes your arms and legs numb. I don’t care what you say, Dick, I’m going to treat you royally today. We’ll remember the good old days and the Borscht. Poor old Ernie is still in the cooler, you know that?” He drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and casually asked: “What’s new at the institute? Have they tackled witches’ jelly yet? You know, I sort of fell behind science a bit.”
Noonan understood why Redrick was bringing up the topic. He threw up his hands in dismay.
“Are you kidding? Did you know what happened with that jelly? Have you heard of the Currigan Labs? There’s this little private supplier… So they got themselves some jelly…”
He told him about the catastrophe. And about the shocking fact that they never tied up the loose ends, never found out where the lab had gotten it. Redrick listened, feigning distraction, clucking his tongue, and shaking his head. He decisively splashed more whiskey into their glasses.
“That’s what they deserve, the bloodsuckers. I hope they all choke.”
They drank. Redrick looked over at his father and a shudder crossed his face once more.
“Guta!” he shouted. “Are you going to starve us much longer? She’s knocking herself out for you, you know,” he told Noonan. “She wants to make your favorite salad, with crabmeat. She bought a supply a while ago just in case you turned up. Well, how are things at the institute in general? Found anything new? I hear you have robots working full force but not getting too much out of it.”
Noonan started in on institute business, and while he was talking, Monkey appeared noiselessly at the table by the old man. She stood there with her hairy paws on the table and then in a perfectly childlike way, she leaned against the moulage and put her head on his shoulder. Noonan went on chatting but thought, as he looked at those two horrors born of the Zone: My God, what else? What else has to be done to us before we understand? Isn’t this enough? But he knew that it wasn’t. He knew that millions upon millions of people knew nothing and wanted to know nothing, and even if they found out would ooh and aah for five minutes and then go back to their own routines. It was time to go, he thought wildly. The hell with Burbridge, the hell with Lemchen, and the hell with this goddamned family!
“What are you staring at them for?” Redrick asked softly. “Don’t worry, it won’t harm her. They even say that they generate good health.”
“Yes, I know,” Noonan said and drained his glass.
Guta came in, ordered Redrick to set the table, and set a large silver bowl with Noonan’s favorite salad on the table.
“Well, friends,” Redrick announced. “Now we’re going to have ourselves a feast!”
4. REDRICK SCHUHART, AGE 31
The valley had cooled overnight, and by dawn it was actually cold. They were walking along the embankment, stepping over the rotten ties between the ru
sty rails, and Redrick watched the drops of condensed fog glisten on Arthur Burbridge’s leather jacket. The boy was striding along lightly and merrily, as though the exhausting night, the nervous tension that still made every vein in his body ache, and the two horrible hours they spent huddled back to back for warmth in a tortured half-sleep on top of the hill, waiting for the flood of the green stuff to drip past them and disappear into the ravine—as though all that had not happened.
A thick fog lay along the sides of the embankment. Once in a while it crawled up on the rails with its heavy gray feet and in those places they walked knee-deep in the swirling mists. The air smelled of rust, and the swamp to the right of the embankment reeked of decay. The fog made it impossible to see anything, but Redrick knew that a hilly plain with rubble heaps surrounded them, and that mountains hid in the gloom beyond. And he knew also that when the sun came up and the fog settled into dew, he would see the downed helicopter somewhere on his left and the ore flatcars up ahead. And then the real work would begin.
Redrick slipped his hand up under the backpack to lift it so that the edge of the helium tank would not dig into his spine. It’s a heavy bugger, he thought. How am I going to crawl with it? A mile on all fours. All right, stalker, no grumbling now, you knew what you were getting into. Five hundred thousand at the end of the road. I can work up a sweat for that. Five hundred thousand sure is a sweet bundle. I’ll be damned if I give it to them for less. Or if I give Buzzard more than thirty. And the punk? The punk gets nothing. If the old bugger had told even half the truth, the punk gets nothing.
He looked at Arthur’s back again and watched through squinted eyes as the boy stepped over two ties at a time, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped. His dark raven hair, like his sister’s, bounced rhythmically. He asked for it, Redrick thought grimly. Himself. Why did he beg to come along so persistently? So desperately? He trembled and had tears in his eyes. “Take me, Mr. Schuhart! Lots of people have offered to take me along, but they’re all no good! My father… but he can’t take me now!” Redrick forced himself to drop the memory. He was repelled by the thought and maybe that’s why he started thinking about Arthur’s sister. He just could not fathom it: how such a fantastic-looking woman could actually be a plastic fake, a dummy. It was like the buttons on his mother’s blouse—they were amber, he remembered, semitransparent, and golden. He just wanted to shove them in his mouth and suck on them, and every time he was disappointed terribly, and every time he forgot about the disappointment—not forgot, just refused to accept what his memory told him.
Maybe it was his pop who sent him over to me, he thought about Arthur. Look at the piece he’s carrying in his back pocket. Nah, I doubt it. Buzzard knows me. Buzzard knows that I don’t go for jokes. And he knows what I’m like in the Zone. No, that’s all nonsense. He’s not the first to have begged me, and not the first to have shed tears; others even got down on their knees. And as for the piece, they all bring guns on their first time in the Zone. The first and last time. Is it really the last? It’s your last, bud. Here’s how it works out, Buzzard: his last. Yes, if you knew what your sonny boy was planning—you would have beaten him to a pulp with your crutches. He suddenly felt that there was something ahead of them—not far, some thirty or forty yards away.
“Stop,” he told Arthur.
The boy obediently froze in his tracks. His reflexes were good—he had stopped with one foot in the air, and he lowered it slowly and carefully. Redrick stopped next to him. The track dipped noticeably here and disappeared completely in the fog. And there was something in the fog. Something big and motionless. Harmless. Redrick carefully sniffed the air. Yes. Harmless.
“Forward,” he said quietly. He waited for Arthur to take a step and he followed. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Arthur’s face, his chiseled profile, the clear skin of his cheek, and the determined set of his lips under the thin mustache.
They were up to their waists in fog, and then up to their necks. A few seconds later the great hulk of the ore cars loomed ahead of them.
“That’s it,” Redrick said and took off his backpack. “Sit down right where you are. Smoke break.”
Arthur helped him with the backpack, and they sat down next to each other on the rusty rails. Redrick unbuttoned a flap and took out a package with sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. While Arthur set up the sandwiches on top of the backpack, Redrick took out his flask, opened it, closed his eyes, and took several slow sips.
“Want some?” he offered, wiping the neck of the flask. “For courage?”
Arthur shook his head, hurt.
“I don’t need that for courage, Mr. Schuhart. I’d rather have coffee, if I may. It’s awfully damp here, isn’t it?”
“It’s damp.” He put away the flask, chose a sandwich, and set to chewing. “When the fog lifts, you’ll see that we’re surrounded by nothing but swamps. In the old days the mosquitoes were something fierce.”
He shut up and poured himself some coffee. It was hot, thick, and sweet, and it was even nicer to drink now than alcohol. It smelled of home. Of Guta. And not just of Guta, but of Guta in her robe, fresh from sleep, with pillow marks still on her cheek. Why did I get mixed up in this, he thought? Five hundred thousand. And what do I need it for? Planning to buy a bar with it or something? You need money so you don’t have to think about money. That’s the truth. Dick was right about that. You have a house, you have a yard, you won’t be without a job in Harmont. Buzzard trapped me, lured me like a tenderfoot.
“Mr. Schuhart,” Arthur suddenly said, looking away. “Do you really believe this thing grants wishes?”
“Nonsense!” Redrick muttered distractedly and froze over the cup near his lips. “How do you know what we’re after here?”
Arthur smiled in embarrassment, ran his fingers through his hair, tugged at it, and spoke.
“Well, I guessed! I don’t remember exactly what gave me the clue. Well, first of all, Father was always going on and on about the Golden Ball, and lately he’s stopped. And he has been talking about you. And I know better than to believe Father about you being friends. And secondly, he’s been kind of strange lately.” Arthur laughed and shook his head, remembering something. “And finally, I figured it out, when you and he tried out the little dirigible over in the lot.” He smacked the backpack that contained the tightly rolled balloon. “I followed you and when I saw you lift the bag with rocks and guide it over the ground, it was all clear to me. As far as I know, the Golden Ball is the only heavy thing left in the Zone.” He took a bite out of his sandwich and spoke dreamily with his mouth full: “I just don’t understand how you plan to hook onto it, it’s probably smooth.”
Redrick watched him over the rim of the cup and thought how unlike each other they were, father and son. They had absolutely nothing in common. Not face, or voice, or soul. Buzzard had a hoarse, whiny, sneaky kind of voice. But when he talked about this, his voice was hearty. You couldn’t ignore him. “Red,” he had said then, leaning over the table. “There are only two of us left, and only two legs for both, and they’re yours. Who else but you? It’s probably the most valuable thing in the Zone! And who should have it? Should those wise guys with their machinery get it? Hah? I found it. Me! How many of our boys fell there? But I found it! I was saving it for myself. And I wouldn’t be giving it to anyone now, but as you see, my arms have gotten too short. There’s nobody left but you. I dragged lots of young ones in there, a school full. I opened a school for them, you see… they can’t. They don’t have the guts for it, or something. All right, you don’t believe me, I don’t care. You want the money. You get it. You give me as much as you want. I know you won’t gyp me. And maybe I’ll be able to get my legs back. My legs, do you understand? The Zone took them away, and maybe it’ll give them back?”
“What?” Redrick asked, coming out of his reverie.
“I asked, do you mind if I smoke, Mr. Schuhart?”
“Sure. Go ahead and smoke. I’ll have one too.” He gulped the rest
of the coffee, pulled out a cigarette, and as he squeezed it, he gazed into the thinning fog. A psycho, he thought. He’s nuts. He wants his legs back, the bastard.
All this talk had left a residue, he was not sure of what. And it was not dissolving with time, but on the contrary, it was accumulating. And he could not understand what it was, but it was bothering him. It was as though he had caught something from Buzzard, not some disgusting disease, but on the contrary… his strength, perhaps? No, not strength. But what then? All right, he told himself. Let’s look at it this way: let’s assume that I didn’t get this far. I was all ready to go, packed, and then something happened, they arrested me, say.
Would that be bad? Definitely. Why bad? Because I would lose money? No, it has nothing to do with the money. That this treasure will fall into the hands of Throaty and Bones? There’s something in that. It would hurt. But what do I care? In the end, they’ll get it all anyway.
“Brrrrrr.” Arthur shivered. “It gets into your bones. Mr. Schuhart, maybe now you’ll give me a sip?”
Redrick got the flask silently. I didn’t agree right away, he thought. Twenty times I told Buzzard to get lost, and on the twenty-first I agreed, after all. I couldn’t take it any more. Our last conversation turned out to be brief and businesslike. “Hi, Red. I brought the map. Maybe you’ll take a look at it, after all?” And I looked into his eyes, and they were like sores—yellow with black dots—and I said “Let me have it.” And that was it. I remember that I was drunk then, I had been drinking all week, I felt really low. Ah, the hell with it. Does it matter? I went. So here I am. Why am I worrying about it? What am I, afraid?
He shuddered. He could hear a long sad sound through the fog. He jumped up and Arthur jumped up too. But it was quiet again, and the only sound was the gravel tumbling down the incline under their feet.
“Must be the ore settling,” Arthur whispered unsurely, barely able to get the words out. “The ore cars have a history—they’ve been here a long time.”
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