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 rusty 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
