around the swings. Three old women with knitting in their laps were sitting on a nearby bench, watching her with pursed lips. Exchanging their lousy opinions, the dried-up hags. The kids were fine, playing with her as though she were just like them. It was worth all the bribery—he built them a slide, and a doll house, and the swings—and the bench that the old biddies were on. “All right,” he said, tore himself away from the crack, looked around the garage one more time, and crawled into the hole.
In the southwest part of town, near the abandoned gas station at the end of Miner Street, there was a phone booth. God only knew who used it nowadays—all the houses around it were boarded up and beyond it was the seemingly endless empty lot that used to be the town dump. Redrick sat down in the shade of the booth and stuck his hand into the crack below it. He felt the dusty wax paper and the handle of the gun wrapped in it; the lead box of bullets was there, too, as well as the bag with the bracelets and the old wallet with fake documents. His hiding place was in order. Then he took off his jacket and cap and felt inside his shirt. He sat for a minute or more, hefting in his hand the porcelain container and the invincible and inevitable death it contained. And he felt the nervous tic come back.
“Schuhart,” he muttered, not hearing his own voice, “what are you doing, you snake? You scum, they can kill us all with this thing.” He held his twitching cheek, but it didn’t help. “Bastards,” he said about the workers who had been loading the TV sets. “You got in my way. I would have thrown it back into the Zone, the bitch, and it would have been all over.”
He looked around sadly. The hot air was shimmering over the cracked cement, the boarded-up windows looked at him gloomily, and tumbleweed rolled around the lot. He was alone.
“All right,” he said decisively. “Every man for himself, only God takes care of everybody. I’ve had it.”
Hurrying, so as not to change his mind, he stuffed the container into the cap, and wrapped the cap in the jacket. Then he got on his knees, and leaned against the booth. It moved. The bulky package fit in the bottom of the pit under the booth, with room to spare. He carefully replaced the booth, shook it to see how steady it was, and got up, brushing off his hands.
“That’s it. It’s settled.”
He got into the heat of the phone booth, deposited a coin, and dialed.
“Guta,” he said. “Please, don’t worry. They caught me again.” He could hear her shuddering sigh. He quickly added: “It’s a minor offense, six to eight months, with visiting rights. We’ll manage. And you’ll have money, they’ll send it to you.” She was still silent. “Tomorrow morning they’ll call you down to the command post, we’ll see each other then. Bring Monkey.”
“Will there be a search?” she asked.
“Let them. The house is clean. Don’t worry, keep your tail up—you know, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You married a stalker, so don’t complain. See you tomorrow. And remember, I didn’t call. I kiss your little nose.”
He hung up abruptly and stood for a few seconds, eyes shut and teeth clenched so tightly there was a tingling in his ears. Then he deposited another coin and dialed another number.
“Listening,” said Throaty.
“It’s Schuhart. Listen carefully and don’t interrupt.”
“Schuhart? What Schuhart?” asked Throaty in a natural manner.
“Don’t interrupt, I said! They caught me, I ran, and I’m going to turn myself in now. I’m going to get two and a half or three years. My wife will be penniless. You take care of her. So that she needs nothing, understand? Understand, I said?”
“Go on,” said Throaty.
“Not far from the place where we first met, there’s a phone booth. It’s the only one, you won’t mistake it. The porcelain is under it. If you want it, take it, if you don’t, don’t. But my wife must be taken care of. We still have many years of playing together. If I come back and find out you double-crossed me… I don’t suggest that you do. Understand?”
“I understand everything,” said Throaty. “Thanks.” After a pause, he asked: “Maybe you want a lawyer?”
“No,” said Redrick. “Every last cent goes to my wife. My regards.”
He hung up, looked around, dug his hands into his pants pockets, and slowly went up Miner Street between the empty, boarded-up houses.
3. RICHARD H. NOONAN, AGE 51, SUPERVISOR OF ELECTRONIC EQUIPMENT SUPPLIES FOR THE HARMONT BRANCH OF THE IIEC
Richard H. Noonan was sitting at the desk in his study doodling on the legal size pad. He was also smiling sympathetically, nodding his bald head, and not listening to his visitor. He was simply waiting for a telephone call, and his visitor, Dr. Pilman, was lazily lecturing him. Or imagining that he was lecturing him. Or trying to convince himself that he was lecturing him.
“We’ll keep all that in mind,” Noonan finally said, crossing out another group of five lines and flipping down the pad’s cover. “It really is shocking.”
Valentine’s slender hand neatly flicked the ashes from his cigarette into the ashtray.
“And what precisely will you keep in mind?” he inquired politely.
“Why, everything that you said,” Noonan answered cheerfully, leaning back in his armchair. “To the very last word.”
“And what did I say?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Noonan said. “We’ll keep whatever you say in mind.”
Valentine (Dr. Valentine Pilman, Nobel Prize winner) was sitting in front of him in a deep armchair. He was small, delicate, and neat. There wasn’t a stain on his suede jacket or a wrinkle in his trousers. A blindingly white shirt, a severe solid-colored tie, shining shoes. A malicious smile on his thin pale lips and enormous dark glasses over his eyes. His low broad forehead was topped with a bristly crewcut.
“In my opinion, you’re being paid a fantastic salary for nothing,” he said. “And on top of that, in my opinion, you’re a saboteur as well, Dick.”
“Shhhhhh!” Noonan whispered. “For God’s sake, not so loud.”
“Actually,” Valentine continued, “I’ve been watching you for a long time. In my opinion, you don’t work at all.”
“Just a minute here!” Noonan interrupted and waved his pink finger at him. “What do you mean I don’t work? Is there even one replacement order that hasn’t been handled?”
“I don’t know,” Valentine said and flicked his ash again. “We get good equipment and we get bad equipment. We get the good stuff more often, but what you have to do with it I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Well, if it weren’t for me,” Noonan countered, “the good stuff would be much rarer. And besides, you scientists are always breaking the good equipment, and then calling for a replacement, and who covers for you then? For example…”
The phone rang and Noonan broke off and grabbed the receiver. “Mr. Noonan?” the secretary asked. “Mr. Lemchen again.”
“Put him on.”
Valentine got up, brought two fingers to his forehead as a sign of farewell, and went out. Small, straight, and well-proportioned. “Mr. Noonan?” the familiar drawling voice spoke in the phone. “I’m listening.”
“You’re not easy to reach at work, Mr. Noonan.”
“A new shipment has arrived.”
“Yes, I know about it already. Mr. Noonan, I’m here only for a short time. There are a few questions that must be discussed in person. I’m referring to the latest contracts with Mitsubishi Denshi. The legal side.”
“At your service.”
“Then, if you have no objection, be at our offices in a half hour. Is that convenient?”
“Perfect. In a half hour.”
Richard Noonan hung up, stood, and rubbing his plump hands, walked around the office. He even began singing some pop ditty, but broke off on a particularly sour note and jovially laughed at himself. He picked up his
