hat, tossed his raincoat over his arm, and went out into the reception area.
“Honey,” he said to the secretary, “I’m off to see some clients. You stay here, hold the fort, as they say, and I’ll bring you a present when I get back.”
She blossomed. Noonan blew her a kiss and rolled out into the corridors of the institute. Attempts were made to stop him a few times—he wangled out of conversations, joking, asking people to hold the fort without him, to keep their cool, and finally emerged unscathed and uncaught, waving his unopened pass under the nose of the sergeant on duty.
Heavy clouds hung low over the city. It was muggy and the first hesitant drops of rain were scattering on the sidewalk like little black stars. Spreading his coat over his head and shoulders, Noonan trotted past the long row of cars to his Peugeot, dove in, and tossed the coat in the back seat. He took out the round black stick of the so-so from his suit pocket, put it in the jack in the dashboard, and pushed it in to the hilt with his thumb. He wriggled around, getting more comfortable behind the wheel, and pressed the accelerator pedal. The Peugeot silently drove out into the middle of the street and raced toward the exit from the Pre-Zone Area.
The rain came pouring down suddenly, as though a bucket had been overturned in the sky. The road got slippery and the car swerved at corners. Noonan turned on the wipers and slowed down. So, he thought, they got the report. Now they’ll be praising me. Well, I’m all for that. I like being praised. Especially by Mr. Lemchen himself. In spite of himself. Strange isn’t it? Why do we like being praised? It doesn’t get you any more money. Glory? What kind of glory can we have? “He’s famous: three people know about him now.” Well, let’s say four, counting Bayliss. What a funny creature man is! It seems we enjoy praise just for itself. The way children like ice cream. And it’s so stupid. How can I be better in my own eyes? As if I didn’t know myself? Good old fat Richard H. Noonan? By the way, what does that “H” stand for? What do you know about that? And there’s nobody to ask, either. I can’t ask Mr. Lemchen about it. Oh, I remember! Herbert! Richard Herbert Noonan. Boy, it’s pouring.
He turned onto Central and suddenly thought how the city had grown over the past few years. Huge skyscrapers. They’re building another one over there. What will it be? Oh, the Luna Complex—the world’s best jazz, and a variety show, and so on. Everything for our glorious troops and our brave tourists, especially the elderly ones, and for the noble knights of science. And the suburbs are being emptied.
Yes, I’d like to know how this will all end. Well, ten years ago, I was sure I knew. Impenetrable police lines. DMZ twenty miles wide. Scientists and soldiers, and no one else. The horrible sore on the face of the earth blocked off. And I wasn’t the only one who thought that way, either. All the speechifying, all the legislation they introduced! And now you can’t even remember how the universal steely resolve melted into a quivering pool of jelly. “On the one hand, you can’t not acknowledge it, and on the other, you can’t disagree.” It all began, I think, when the stalkers first brought out the so-so’s from the Zone. Little batteries. Yes, I think that’s when it happened. Particularly, when it was discovered that the batteries multiplied. The sore didn’t seem like such a sore any more. More like a treasure trove, Hell’s temptation, Pandora’s box, or the devil. They found ways to use it. Twenty years they’ve been puffing and huffing, wasting billions, and they still haven’t been able to organize their thievery. Everyone has his own little business, and the scientists furrow their brows significantly and portentously: on the one hand, you can’t not acknowledge it, and on the other, you can’t disagree. Since such and such object, when X-rayed at an angle of 18 degrees emits quasither-mal electrons at an angle of 22 degrees. The hell with it! I won’t live to see the end of it anyway.
The car was passing Buzzard Burbridge’s townhouse. Because of the pouring rain, all the lights in the house were on. He could see dancing couples in the second-floor rooms of the beautiful Dina. Either they had started very early, or they were still going strong from last night. That was the new fad in the city—to have parties that went on for several days. We sure are growing hardy kids, full of endurance and steadfast in the pursuit of their desires.
Noonan stopped the car in front of an unsightly building with a discreet sign: “Legal offices of Korsh, Korsh, and Simak.” He took out the so-so and put it in his pocket, pulled on his raincoat again, took his hat, and ran for the entrance. He ran past the doorman, buried in a newspaper, up the stairs covered with a worn carpet. His shoes clattered along the dark corridor of the second floor, which reeked of an odor that he had long ago given up trying to identify, and he threw open the door at the end of the corridor and went in. Instead of the secretary there was a very tan, unfamiliar young man at the desk. He was in shirtsleeves. He was digging around in the guts of some electronic device that was set up on the desk instead of the typewriter. Richard Noonan hung up his coat and hat, smoothed what was left of his hair with both hands, and looked inquiringly at the young man. He nodded. Noonan opened the door to the office.
Mr. Lemchen rose heavily from the big leather armchair in front of the draped window. His angular general’s face was wrinkled either in a welcoming smile or in displeasure with the weather or, perhaps, in a struggle with a sneeze.
“Here you are. Come in, make yourself comfortable.”
Noonan looked around for a place to make himself comfortable and could find nothing except for a hard, straight-backed chair tucked away behind the desk. He sat on the edge of the desk. His jovial mood was dissipating for some reason—he himself did not understand why. Suddenly he understood that he was not going to be praised today. On the contrary. The day of wrath, he thought philosophically and steeled himself for the worst.
“Please smoke,” Mr. Lemchen offered, lowering himself back into the armchair.
“No thank you, I don’t smoke.”
Mr. Lemchen nodded as though his worst suspicions had been confirmed, pressed his fingertips together in a steeple in front of his face, and carefully examined them for a while.
“I suppose that we won’t be discussing the legal affairs of the Mitsubishi Denshi Company,” he finally said.
That was a joke. Richard Noonan smiled readily.
“As you like!”
It was devilishly uncomfortable on the desk, and his feet did not reach the floor.
“I’m sorry to tell you, Richard, that your report created an extremely favorable impression upstairs.”
“Hmm,” Noonan mumbled. Here it comes, he thought.
“They were even going to recommend you for a decoration,” Mr. Lemchen continued. “However, I talked them into waiting on it. And I was right.” He tore himself away from contemplating the pattern of the ten fingers and looked up at Noonan. “You ask why I behaved in such a cautious manner?”
“You probably had some justification,” Noonan said in a dull tone.
“Yes, I had. What are the results of your report, Richard? The Metropole gang is liquidated. Through your efforts. The Green Flower gang was apprehended red-handed. Brilliant work. Also yours. Quasimodo, the Wandering Musicians, and all the other gangs, I don’t remember the names, disbanded because they knew the jig was up and they would be taken any day. All this really did happen, it’s all been verified by other sources. The battlefield was cleared. Your victory, Richard. The enemy retreated in disarray, suffering heavy losses. Have I given an accurate acount?”
“In any case,” Noonan said carefully, “during the last three months the flow of materials from the Zone through Harmont has stopped. At least according to my information.”
“The enemy has retreated, is that not so?”
“Well, if you insist on the metaphor, yes.”
“No! The point is that this enemy never retreats. I know that for sure. In rushing a victory report, Richard, you have demonstrated your lack of maturity. That is why I suggested they hold off rewarding you immediately.”
Go blow, you and your awards, thought Noonan, swinging his foot and glumly watching his shiny toe. Stick your awards in the cobwebs in the attic! And all I need is a little didacticism from you. I know who I’m dealing with without your lectures. Don’t tell me about the enemy. Just tell me straight out—when, where, and how I messed up, what those bastards managed to steal, where and how they found cracks—and without the bullshit, I’m no raw recruit, I’m over half a century old and I’m not sitting here for the sake of your stupid decorations and orders.
“What have you heard about the Golden Ball?” Mr. Lemchen suddenly asked.
God, what does the Golden Ball have to do with all this, Noonan thought in irritation. I wish you and your indirect manner would go to hell.
“The Golden Ball is a legend,” he reported in a dull voice. “A mythical artifact located in the Zone in the shape and form of a gold ball that grants human wishes.”
