“Please smoke,” Mr. Lemchen offered, lowering himself back into the armchair.
“No thank you, I don’t smoke.”
Mr. Lemchen nodded as though his worst suspicions had been confirmed, pressed his fingertips together in a steeple in front of his face, and carefully examined them for a while.
“I suppose that we won’t be discussing the legal affairs of the Mitsubishi Denshi Company,” he finally said.
That was a joke. Richard Noonan smiled readily.
“As you like!”
It was devilishly uncomfortable on the desk, and his feet did not reach the floor.
“I’m sorry to tell you, Richard, that your report created an extremely favorable impression upstairs.”
“Hmm,” Noonan mumbled. Here it comes, he thought.
“They were even going to recommend you for a decoration,” Mr. Lemchen continued. “However, I talked them into waiting on it. And I was right.” He tore himself away from contemplating the pattern of the ten fingers and looked up at Noonan. “You ask why I behaved in such a cautious manner?”
“You probably had some justification,” Noonan said in a dull tone.
“Yes, I had. What are the results of your report, Richard? The Metropole gang is liquidated. Through your efforts. The Green Flower gang was apprehended red-handed. Brilliant work. Also yours. Quasimodo, the Wandering Musicians, and all the other gangs, I don’t remember the names, disbanded because they knew the jig was up and they would be taken any day. All this really did happen, it’s all been verified by other sources. The battlefield was cleared. Your victory, Richard. The enemy retreated in disarray, suffering heavy losses. Have I given an accurate account?”
“In any case,” Noonan said carefully, “during the last three months the Bow of materials from the Zone through Harmont has stopped. At least according to my information.”
“The enemy has retreated, is that not so?”
“Well, if you insist on the metaphor, yes.”
“No! The point is that this enemy never retreats. I know that for sure. In rushing a victory report, Richard, you have demonstrated your lack of maturity. That is why I suggested they hold off rewarding you immediately.”
Go blow, you and your awards, thought Noonan, swinging his foot and glumly watching his shiny toe. Stick your awards in the cobwebs in the attic! And all I need is a little didacticism from you. I know who I’m dealing with without your lectures. Don’t tell me about the enemy. Just tell me straight out—when, where, and how I messed up, what those bastards managed to steal, where and how they found cracks and without the bullshit, I’m no raw recruit, I’m over half a century old and I’m not sitting here for the sake of your stupid decorations and orders.
“What have you heard about the Golden Ball?” Mr. Lemchen suddenly asked.
God, what does the Golden Ball have to do with all this, Noonan thought in irritation. I wish you and your indirect manner would go to hell.
“The Golden Ball is a legend,” he reported in a dull voice. “A mythical artifact located in the Zone in the shape and form of a gold ball that grants human wishes.”
“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 frowning.
“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?”