“Is that all?” asked General Lemchen.
“That’s all,” answered Noonan. He looked around the room with an exaggerated motion. The room was boring; there was nothing to look at.
“OK,” said Lemchen. “And what have you heard about lobster eyes?”
“About what eyes?”
“Lobster eyes. Lobster. You know?” General Lemchen made a snipping motion with his fingers. “With claws.”
“First time I’ve heard of them,” said Noonan, frowning.
“Well, what do you know about rattling napkins?”
Noonan climbed off the desk and faced Lemchen, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “I don’t know anything,” he said. “How about you?”
“Unfortunately, I also don’t know anything. Neither about lobster eyes nor about rattling napkins. And yet they exist.”
“In my Zone?” asked Noonan.
“Sit down, sit down,” said General Lemchen, waving his hand. “Our conversation has just started. Sit down.”
Noonan walked around the desk and sat down on the hard straight-backed chair. What’s he getting at, he thought feverishly. What the hell is going on? They probably found some things in the other Zones, and he’s playing tricks on me, the bastard, may he go to hell. He’s always disliked me, the old ass, he can’t forget the limerick.
“Let us continue our little examination,” announced Lemchen, pulling back the curtain and looking out the window. “It’s pouring,” he reported. “I like it.” He let go of the curtain, leaned back in his armchair, and, staring at the ceiling, asked, “How is old Burbridge doing?”
“Burbridge? The Vulture Burbridge is under surveillance. He’s crippled, well-to-do. No connections to the Zone. He owns four bars, a dance studio, and organizes picnics for the garrison officers and tourists. His daughter, Dina, is leading a dissipated life. His son, Arthur, just finished law school.”
General Lemchen gave a contented nod. “Very concise,” he complimented. “And how is Creon the Maltese?”
“One of the few active stalkers. He was connected to the Quasimodo group and is now peddling his swag to the Institute through me. I let him roam free; someday someone might take the bait. Unfortunately, he’s been drinking a lot lately, and I’m afraid he won’t last long.”
“Connections to Burbridge?”
“Courting Dina. No luck.”
“Very good,” said General Lemchen. “And what’s going on with Red Schuhart?”
“He got out of jail a month ago. No financial difficulties. He’s trying to emigrate, but he has—” Noonan hesitated. “Anyway, he has family troubles. He has no time for the Zone.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“It’s not much,” said General Lemchen. “And how is Lucky Carter?”
“He hasn’t been a stalker for years. He sells used cars, and he also owns a shop that rejiggers vehicles to run on spacells. He has four kids; his wife died a year ago. There’s a mother-in-law.”
Lemchen nodded. “So, which of the old-timers have I forgotten?” he inquired amiably.
“You’ve forgotten Jonathan Miles, nicknamed the Cactus. He’s currently in the hospital, dying of cancer. And you’ve forgotten Gutalin—”
“Yes, yes, what about Gutalin?”
“Gutalin’s the same as always,” said Noonan. “He has a gang of three men. They disappear into the Zone for weeks; everything they find, they destroy. But his Warring Angels society has collapsed.”
“Why?”
“Well, as you remember, they would buy up swag, then Gutalin would haul it back into the Zone. Returning Satan’s works to Satan. Nowadays there’s nothing to buy, and besides, the new director of the Institute has set the police on them.”
“I understand,” said General Lemchen. “And the young ones?”
“Oh, the young ones… They come and go; there are five or six with some experience, but lately they’ve had no one to sell the swag to, and they’ve become confused. I’m taming them bit by bit. I would say, chief, that my Zone is practically free of stalkers. The old-timers are gone, the young ones are clueless, and on top of that, the prestige of the craft isn’t what it once was. The coming thing is technology, robot-stalkers.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard of this,” said General Lemchen. “However, these robots aren’t even worth the energy they consume. Or am I mistaken?”
“That’s just a matter of time. They’ll soon be worth it.”
“How soon?”
“In five or six years.”
General Lemchen nodded again. “By the way, you might not have heard this yet, but the enemy has also started using robot-stalkers.”
“In my Zone?” asked Noonan again, pricking up his ears.
“In yours as well. In your case, they set up base in Rexopolis and use a helicopter to convey the equipment over the mountains to Serpent’s Gorge, to the Black Lake, and to the foothills of Boulder’s Peak.”
“But that’s all on the periphery,” said Noonan suspiciously. “It’s empty, what could they possibly find?”
“Little, very little. But they do find it. However, that’s just for reference, it’s not your concern… Let us recap. There are almost no professional stalkers left in Harmont. Those who are left have no connection to the Zone. The young ones are confused and are currently in the process of being tamed. The enemy has been defeated, repulsed, and is holed up somewhere licking his wounds. Swag is scarce, and when it does appear, there’s nobody to sell it to. The illegal flow of materials from the Harmont Zone has now been over for three months. Correct?”
Noonan stayed silent. Now’s the time, he thought. Now he’ll let me have it. But what could I have missed? And it must be quite the oversight. Well, go on, go on, bastard! Don’t drag it out…
“I don’t hear an answer,” said General Lemchen, cupping a hand to his hairy, wrinkled ear.
“All right, chief,” said Noonan gloomily. “That’s enough. You’ve already boiled me and fried me, now you can serve me up.”
General Lemchen vaguely harrumphed. “You have absolutely nothing to say for yourself,” he said with unexpected bitterness. “Here you stand, looking dumb before authority, but imagine how I felt, when two days ago—” He cut himself off, stood up, and plodded toward his safe. “In short, during the last two months, according to our sources alone, the enemy forces have received more than six thousand units of material from various Zones.” He stopped near the safe, stroked its painted side, and whirled toward Noonan. “Don’t kid yourself!” he roared. “The fingerprints of Burbridge! The fingerprints of the Maltese! The fingerprints of Ben-Halevy the Nose, whom you didn’t even bother to mention! The fingerprints of Nasal Haresh and Midget Zmig! This is how you tame your youths! Bracelets! Needles! White whirligigs! And if that wasn’t enough—we’ve got lobster eyes, bitches’ rattles, and rattling napkins, whatever the hell they are! Damn them all!”
He cut himself off again, returned to the armchair, joined his fingertips, and inquired politely, “What do you think about this, Richard?”
Noonan took out a handkerchief and wiped his neck and the back of his head. “I don’t think anything,” he croaked honestly. “I’m sorry, chief, right now I’m just… Let me catch my breath… Burbridge! I’d bet a whole month’s salary that Burbridge has no connection to the Zone! I know his every move! He organizes picnics and drinking parties at the lakes, he’s raking it in, and he simply doesn’t need… I’m sorry, I’m babbling nonsense of course, but I swear I haven’t lost sight of Burbridge since he got out of the hospital.”