“Any wishes?”
“According to the canonic version of the legend, any wish. There are, however, variant versions.”
“All right. What have you heard about death lamps?”
“Eight years ago a stalker by the name of Stefan Norman, nicknamed Four-eyes, brought out an apparatus from the Zone that, as far as can be judged, was some kind of ray-emitting system fatal to earth organisms. This Four-eyes offered the apparatus to the institute. They did not agree on price. Four-eyes reentered the Zone and never came back. The present whereabouts of the apparatus is unknown. People at the institute are still tearing their hair out over it. Hugh from the Metropole, whom you know, offered any sum that could be written on a check.”
“Is that all?” Mr. Lemchen asked.
“That’s all.” Noonan was blatantly looking around the room. The room was boring, there was nothing to look at.
“All right. And what have you heard about lobster eyes?”
“What kind of eyes?”
“Lobster eyes. Lobsters. You know? With claws.”
Lemchen made clawlike movements with his fingers.
“I’ve never heard of them,” Noonan said frowing.
“And what about rattling napkins?”
Noonan climbed down from the desk and stood before Lemchen, hands in pockets.
“I don’t know a thing about them. How about you?”
“Unfortunately, neither do I. Nor about the lobster eyes or the rattling napkins. Nevertheless, they exist.”
“In my Zone?” Noonan asked.
“Sit down, sit down,” Mr. Lemchen said waving his hand. “Our little talk is just starting. Sit down.”
Noonan walked around the desk and sat on the hard chair with the straight back.
What’s he aiming at? he thought feverishly. What is all this new stuff? They probably found it in the other Zones and he’s trying to make a fool out of me, the ass. He never liked me, the old devil, he can’t forget the limerick.
“Let’s continue our little examination,” Lemchen announced as he drew aside an edge of the drape and peered out the window. “It’s pouring. I like it.” He released the curtain, sat back in his chair, and looking at the ceiling, asked: “How’s old Burbridge getting along?”
“Burbridge? Buzzard Burbridge is under surveillance. He’s a cripple, well-to-do. No connection with the Zone. He owns four bars and a dance school, and he organizes picnics for officers from the garrison and for tourists. His daughter Dina leads a dissolute life. His son Arthur just graduated from law school.”
Mr. Lemchen nodded in satisfaction. “And what is Creon the Maltese doing?”
“He is one of the few active stalkers. He was mixed up with the Quasimodo gang, and now he peddles his swag to the institute through me. I’m giving him a free rein: somebody will pick him off sooner or later. He’s been drinking a lot lately, and I’m afraid he won’t last too long.”
“Contact with Burbridge?”
“He’s courting Dina. No success.”
“Very good,” Mr. Lemchen said. “What do you hear about Red Schuhart?”
“He got out of prison last month. No financial difficulties. He tried to emigrate, but he has…” Noonan was silent. “Well, he has family problems. He has no time for the Zone.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
“Not much,” Mr. Lemchen said. “How are things with Lucky Carter?”
“He hasn’t been a stalker for many years. He sells used cars and he has a shop that converts cars to run on so-so’s. Four kids, his wife died last year. Has a mother-in-law.”
Lemchen nodded.
“Well, who have I forgotten of the oldsters?” he asked in a kindly tone.
“You forgot Jonathan Miles, known as Cactus. He’s in the hospital, dying of cancer. And you forgot Gutalin.”
“Yes, yes, what about Gutalin?”
“He’s still the same. He has a gang of three men. They go into the Zone for days at a time, destroying everything they come across. His old organization, the Fighting Angels, broke up.”
“Why?”
“Well, as you recall, they used to buy up swag and Gutalin would take it back into the Zone. The devil’s things to the devil. Now there’s nothing to buy, and besides, the new director of the institute got the cops on them.”
“I understand,” Mr. Lemchen said. “What about the young ones?”
“Well, the young ones, they come and go. There are five or six with some experience, but lately there’s been no one to fence the swag and they’re lost. I’m training them little by little. I think that stalking has almost disappeared in my Zone, chief. The old ones are retired, the young ones don’t know how, and the prestige of the trade is slipping. Technology is taking over. Now there are robot stalkers.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard about that. But the machines use up too much energy. Or am I mistaken?”
“It’s just a question of time. They’ll be worth it soon.”
“How soon?”
“Five or six years.”
Mr. Lemchen nodded again.
“By the way you probably don’t know that the enemy has started employing the automated stalkers?”
“In my Zone?” Noonan asked, on guard.
“In yours, too. They base themselves in Rexopolis, transfer the equipment by helicopter over the mountains to Snake Canyon, to Black Lake, and the foothills of Mount Boulder.”
“But that’s the periphery of the Zone,” Noonan said suspiciously. “It’s empty there. What could they find?”
“Little, very little. But they find it. Anyway, I was just informing you, it doesn’t concern you. Let’s recapitulate. There are almost no professional stalkers left in Harmont. The ones who have stayed have no relationship to the Zone any more. The young ones are lost and undergoing a process of being tamed. The enemy is shattered, scattered, and lying low somewhere licking his wounds. There is no swag, and when it does appear, there’s nobody to sell it to. The illegal removal of material from the Harmont Zone ceased three months ago. Correct?”
Noonan was silent. Now, he thought. Now he’s going to give it to me. But where was the gap? It must have been a really big one, too. Well, do it, you old fart! Don’t drag it out.
“I don’t hear your reply,” Mr. Lemchen said cupping his hand to his wrinkled hairy ear.
“All right, chief,” Noonan said somberly. “Enough. You’ve boiled and fried me, now serve me at the table.”
Mr. Lemchen harrumphed vaguely.
“You have absolutely nothing to say for yourself,” he said with unexpected bitterness. “You stand there flapping your ears before authority, how do you think I felt day before yesterday?” He interrupted himself, got up, and started for the safe. “In short, during the last two months, according to the information we have, the enemy has received more than six thousand items from the various Zones.” He stopped before the safe, patted its painted side, and turned sharply toward Noonan. “Don’t comfort yourself with illusions!” he shouted. “The fingerprints of Burbridge! The fingerprints of the Maltese! The fingerprints of Ben Halevy the Nose, whom you did not even bother to mention! The fingerprints of Hindus Heresh and Pygmy Zmyg! So that’s how you’re training your youths! Bracelets! Needles! White whirligigs! And on top of that—these lobsters’ eyes, and bitches’ rattles, and rattling napkins, whatever they are! The hell with them all!” He interrupted himself again, returned to his armchair, made a steeple with his fingers, and asked politely: “What do you think about all this, Richard?”
Noonan mopped his neck with his handkerchief.
“I don’t think anything about it,” he honestly answered. “Forgive me, chief, I’m a little… let me catch my breath… Burbridge! Burbridge has nothing to do with the Zone any more! I know his every step! He arranges picnics
