I take a look at Kirill and see that he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye. And the look on his face makes me do another one-eighty. Screw them, I think, let them all rot in hell, what can those toads do to me after all?
He doesn’t need to say a thing, but he does. “Laboratory Assistant Schuhart,” he says. “From official—I emphasize ‘official’—sources I have received information suggesting that the inspection of the garage may be of great value to world science. I propose we inspect the garage. A bonus paycheck is guaranteed.” And he’s grinning from ear to ear.
“What official sources?” I ask, grinning like an idiot myself.
“These are confidential sources,” he answers. “But I am authorized to tell you.” Here he stops grinning and frowns. “Say, from Dr. Douglas.”
“Ah,” I say, “from Dr. Douglas. And which Dr. Douglas is that?”
“Sam Douglas,” he says drily. “He perished last year.”
My skin crawls. For God’s sake! Who talks about these things before setting out? These eggheads never have a grain of sense… I jab my cigarette butt into the ashtray. “Fine. Where’s your Tender? How long do we have to wait for him?”
Anyway, we drop the topic. Kirill calls PPS and orders us a hoverboot while I take a look at their map. It’s not bad at all—made from a highly magnified aerial photograph. You can even make out the ridges on the tire lying next to the garage gates. If we stalkers had maps like this… then again, much good it’d do at night, when you’re showing your ass to the stars and can’t see your own two hands.
And here Tender shows up. Red in the face, puffing and panting. His daughter got sick, he had to go fetch the doctor. He apologizes for being late. Well, we hand him quite the gift—a trip to the Zone. At first he almost forgets to puff and pant, the poor guy.
“What do you mean, the Zone?” he says. “Why me?” However, when he hears about the double bonus and that Red Schuhart is coming too, he calms down and starts breathing again.
Anyway, we go down to the “boudoir,” Kirill rushes off to get the passes, we show the passes to yet another sergeant, and this sergeant gives each of us a specsuit. Now these really are handy. Dye a specsuit any color other than the original red, and any stalker would put down five hundred for it without batting an eyelash. I’ve long since vowed to figure out a way to swipe one from the Institute. At first glance, it’s nothing special, looks like a diving suit, with a helmet to match and a large visor at the front. Maybe it’s not quite like a diving suit, actually, more like a space suit. It’s light, comfortable, not too tight, and you don’t sweat in it from the heat. You can go right through a fire in this thing, and no gas will penetrate it. It’s even bulletproof, they say. Of course, fire, toxic gas, and bullets—these are only Earth perils. The Zone doesn’t have those; in the Zone you have other worries. Anyhow, truth be told, even in their specsuits people drop like flies. On the other hand, without them it’d probably be even worse. These suits are completely safe from the burning fuzz, for example. And from Satan’s blossom and its spit… All right.
We pull on our specsuits, I pour some nuts and bolts from a bag into my hip pocket, and we plod across the Institute yard toward the Zone entrance. That’s how they always do it around here, so that everyone can see: There they go, the heroes of science, to lay themselves down on the altar to mankind, knowledge, and the Holy Spirit, amen. And sure enough, sympathetic mugs poke out of every window all the way up to the fifteenth floor; hankies waving good-bye and an orchestra are the only things missing.
“Keep your head high,” I tell Tender. “Suck in your gut, soldier! A grateful humanity won’t forget you!”
He gives me a look, and I see that he’s in no mood for jokes. He’s right—this is no joke. But when you’re leaving for the Zone, it’s one of two things: you start bawling, or you crack jokes—and I’m sure as hell not crying. I take a look at Kirill. He’s holding up OK, only mouthing something silently, as if praying.
“Praying?” I ask. “Pray, pray! The farther into the Zone, the closer to heaven.”
“What?” he says.
“Pray!” I yell. “Stalkers cut in line at the gates of heaven!”
And he suddenly smiles and pats me on the back, as if to say, Nothing will happen as long as you are with me, and if it does, well, we only die once. God, he’s a funny guy.
We hand our passes over to the last sergeant—this time, for a change of pace, he happens to be a lieutenant; I know him, his pop sells cemetery fencing in Rexopolis—and there’s the hoverboot waiting for us, the guys from PPS have flown it over and left it at the checkpoint. Everyone is gathered already: the ambulance and the firefighters and our valiant guards, the fearless rescuers—a bunch of overfed slackers with their helicopter. I wish to God I’d never set eyes on them!
We climb into the boot. Kirill takes the controls and looks at me. “Well, Red,” he says, “your orders?”
I slowly lower the specsuit zipper on my chest, pull out a flask, take a long sip, screw the lid back on, and put the flask back. I can’t do without this. God knows how many times I’ve been in the Zone, but without it—no way, can’t do it. They’re both looking at me and waiting.
“All right,” I say. “I’m not offering you any, since this is our first time going in together, and I don’t know how the stuff affects you. Here is how we’ll do things. Everything I say will be carried out immediately and unconditionally. If someone hesitates or starts asking questions, I’ll hit whatever is in reach, my apologies in advance. For example, say I order you, Mr. Tender, to walk on your hands. And at that very moment, you, Mr. Tender, must stick your fat ass up in the air and do as you are told. And if you don’t do as you are told, you may never see your sick daughter again. Got it? But I’ll take care that you do see her.”
“Just don’t forget to give the orders, Red,” croaks Tender, who is completely red, sweating already and smacking his lips. “I’ll walk on my teeth, never mind my hands. I’m no novice.”
“You are both novices to me,” I say, “and I won’t forget the orders, don’t you worry. Oh, just in case, do you know how to drive a boot?”
“He knows how,” says Kirill. “He’s good at it.”
“Glad to hear,” I say. “Then we’re off. Lower your visors! Low speed along the marked route, altitude nine feet! At the twenty-seventh marker, stop.”
Kirill lifts the boot to nine feet and puts it in low gear while I discreetly turn my head and blow over my left shoulder for luck. Looking back, I see our guards, the rescuers, are clambering into their helicopter, the firefighters are standing up in respect, the lieutenant at the door of the checkpoint is saluting us, the idiot, and above them all—an immense banner, already faded: WELCOME TO EARTH, DEAR ALIENS! Tender made a move to wave them all good-bye, but I gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs to knock the ceremonies out of him. I’ll show you how to bid farewell, you fat-assed fool!