“And every night?” he asks with a drunken laugh.
“Stop that,” I say. “Enough with the jokes.”
“I know,” he says. “Enough with the jokes, or I might get a punch in the face. Let’s say you can take a couple swings at me sometime…”
“Who’s getting punched?” Gutalin comes to life. “Which one of you?”
We grab his arms, barely getting him into his seat. Dick sticks a cigarette in his teeth and lights it. We calm him down. Meanwhile, people keep coming in. There’s no room left at the bar, and most tables are taken. Ernest has called up his girls, and they’re running around, fetching drinks—beer for some, cocktails or vodka for others. Lately I’ve been noticing a lot of new faces in town—young punks with colorful scarves down to the floor. I mention this to Dick, and he nods.
“That’s right,” he says. “They’re starting a lot of construction. The Institute’s putting up three new buildings, and they’re also going to wall off the Zone from the cemetery to the old ranch. The good times for stalkers are coming to an end.”
“Like we stalkers ever had them,” I say. At the same time, I think, What the hell is this? That means I won’t be able to work on the side. Oh well, might be for the best—less temptation. I’ll go into the Zone during the day, like an honest man; the money isn’t as good, of course, but it’s much safer. There’s the boot, the specsuits, and all that crap, and I won’t give a damn about patrols. I can live on my salary, and I’ll drink my bonuses.
Now I get really depressed. I’ll have to count every cent again: This I can afford, this I can’t. I’ll have to pinch pennies for Guta’s gifts… No more bars, only cheap movies… And everything’s gray, all gray. Gray every day, and every evening, and every night.
I sit there thinking this while Dick keeps buzzing in my ear. “Last night I go to the hotel bar for a late-night drink, and I see some new faces in there. I didn’t like them from the start. One of them comes over and starts working up to something, tells me he knows about me, knows who I am and what I do, and hints that he’ll pay good money for certain services…
“An informer,” I say. I’m not too interested in all this, I’ve seen my share of informers and heard plenty of talk about services.
“No, my friend, not an informer. You listen. I talked to him for a bit—being careful, of course, playing the fool. He’s interested in certain items from the Zone, and these items are no joke. Trinkets like batteries, shriekers, and black sparks aren’t for him. And he only hinted at what he does need.”
“So what exactly does he need?” I ask.
“Hell slime, if I understood correctly,” Dick says, and gives me a strange look.
“Ah, so he needs hell slime!” I say. “Maybe he’d like a death lamp as well?”
“I asked him about that, too.”
“Well?”
“Believe it or not, he does.”
“Yeah?” I say. “Then he can go get them himself. It’s easy as pie! We have basements full of hell slime, he can take a bucket and dip right in. It’s his funeral.”
Dick stays silent, looks at me from beneath his brows, and doesn’t even smile. What the hell, is he trying to hire me or something? And then it clicks.
“Wait,” I say. “Who could that have been? We aren’t even allowed to study the hell slime at the Institute.”
“Exactly,” says Dick deliberately, keeping his eyes on me. “It’s research that might pose a danger to humanity. Now do you understand who that was?”
I don’t understand a thing. “An alien?” I say.
He bursts out laughing and pats me on the arm. “Why don’t we have a drink, you simple soul?”
“Why don’t we?” I reply, although I feel mad. Screw this—enough of this “simple soul” business, bastards! “Hey, Gutalin!” I say. “Wake up, let’s have a drink.”
No, Gutalin’s asleep. He’s put his black face down on the black table and is asleep, arms hanging to the floor. Dick and I have a drink without Gutalin.
“All right,” I say. “I might be a simple or a complicated soul, but I’d report this guy. I have no love for the police, but I’d go and report him myself.”
“Yeah,” says Dick. “And the police would ask you: why, exactly, did this fellow come to you with his offers? Hmm?”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. You fat pig, you’ve spent three years in town, but you haven’t been in the Zone, and you’ve only seen the hell slime in movies. And if you saw it in real life—saw what it does to a man—you’d shit your pants right there. This is awful stuff, my friend, you shouldn’t take it out of the Zone… As you know, stalkers are crude men, they only care about the money, the more the better, but even the late Slug wouldn’t go for this. The Vulture Burbridge wouldn’t do it. I can’t even imagine who would want hell slime and what they’d want it for.”
“Well,” says Dick, “that’s all very admirable. But you see, I don’t want to be found dead in bed one morning with a suicide note beside me. I’m not a stalker, but I’m also a crude and practical man, and I happen to like life. I’ve been alive for a while, I’m used to it…”
Here Ernest suddenly hollers from behind the bar, “Mr. Noonan! Phone for you!”
“Damn it,” says Dick viciously. “It’s probably the claims department again. They always track me down. Give me a minute, Red.”
He gets up and goes to the phone. I stay with Gutalin and the bottle, and since Gutalin is of no use, I get real chummy with the bottle. Damn that Zone, there’s no getting away from it. Wherever you go, whoever you talk to—it’s always the Zone, the Zone, the Zone… It’s very nice for Kirill to argue that the Zone will help bring about world peace and eternal sunshine. Kirill is a great guy, no one would call him dumb—in fact, he’s as smart as they come—but he doesn’t know shit about life. He can’t even imagine the scum that gathers around the Zone. Here, take a look: someone wants hell slime. No, Gutalin might be a drunk and a religious fanatic, but sometimes you think about it and you wonder: maybe we really should leave Satan’s works for Satan? Hands off the shit…
Here some punk wearing a colorful scarf sits down in Dick’s seat. “Mr. Schuhart?” he asks.
“Yes?” I say.
“My name’s Creon,” he says. “I’m from Malta.”
“OK,” I say. “And how are things in Malta?”
“Things in Malta are all right, but that’s not why I’m here. Ernest referred me to you.”
Ah, I think. Ernest is a bastard after all. He’s got no pity, none at all. Look at this kid—dark skinned, innocent, good-looking, he’s probably never shaved and has never kissed a girl, but what’s that to Ernie? He just wants to herd us all into the Zone—if one out of three returns with swag, that’s a profit already. “Well, and how’s old Ernest doing?” I ask.
He turns around to look at the bar and says, “As far as I can tell, he’s doing pretty well. I’d trade with him.”
“I wouldn’t,” I say. “Want a drink?”
“Thank you, I don’t drink.”
“How about a smoke?”
“Sorry, I don’t smoke either.”
“God damn it!” I say. “Then what do you need money for?”
He reddens, stops smiling, and says softly, “That’s probably my own business, right, Mr. Schuhart?”
“Can’t argue with that,” I say, and pour myself a shot. By now my head is buzzing, and my limbs feel pleasantly relaxed; the Zone has completely let go. “Right now I’m drunk,” I say. “Celebrating, as you see. Went into the Zone, came back alive and with money. It’s not often that you come back alive, and the money is real rare. So let’s postpone the serious discussion.”