“I really like nondrinkers,” Noonan said.
“Don’t get off the subject!” Valentine said. “Listen, what can I tell you? It’s very strange.” He raised his glass, drank half in one gulp, and went on. “We don’t know what happened to the poor Harmonites at the very moment of the Visitation. But now one of them decides to emigrate. Your most typical man in the street. A barber. The son of a barber and the grandson of a barber. He moves, say, to Detroit. He opens up a barbershop and all hell breaks loose. Over ninety percent of his clients die during a year: they die in car crashes, fall out of windows, are cut down by gangsters or muggers, drown in shallow waters, and so on and so forth. A number of natural disasters hit Detroit and its suburbs. Typhoons and tornadoes, not seen since eighteen-oh-something, suddenly appear in the area. And all that kind of stuff. And such cataclysmic events take place in any city, any area where an emigrant from a Zone area settles. The number of catastrophes is directly proportional to the number of emigrants who have moved to the city. And note that this reaction is caused only by emigrants who actually lived through the Visitation. Those born after the Visitation have no effect on the disaster and accident statistics. You’ve lived here for ten years, but you moved in after the Visitation and it would be safe to relocate you even in the Vatican. How can this be explained? What should we reject? The statistics? Or common sense?” Valentine grabbed the glass and finished his drink in a gulp.
Richard Noonan scratched his head.
“Hmmm, yes. Of course, I’d heard all that before, but I, uh, assumed that it was all, to put it mildly, exaggerated. Really, from the point of view of our highly developed science….”
“Or, for instance, the mutagen effect of the Zone,” Valentine interrupted. He removed his glasses and stared at Noonan with his dark, myopic eyes. “Everyone who spends enough time with the Zone undergoes changes, both of phenotype and genotype. You know what kind of children stalkers can have and you know what happens to the stalkers themselves. Why? Where is the mutation factor? There is no radiation in the Zone. While the air and soil in the Zone have their own specific chemical structure, they pose no mutation dangers at all. What should I do under the circumstances —believe in sorcery? In the evil eye?”
“I sympathize. But, frankly, I am much more upset by corpses come to life than by your statistics. Especially since I’ve never seen the statistics, but I have seen the zombies—and smelled them.”
Valentine waved away the statement.
“Bah, your zombies. Richard, you should be ashamed of yourself. You are an educated man, after all. First of all, they are not corpses. They are moulages – reconstructions on the skeletons, dummies. And I assure you, from the point of view of fundamental principles, your moulages are no more amazing than the eternal batteries. It’s just that the so-so’s violate the first law of thermodynamics, and the moulages violate the second. We’re all cave men in one sense or another. We can’t imagine anything scarier than a ghost. But the violation of the law of causality is much more terrifying than a stampede of ghosts. And all the monsters of Rubenstein, or is it Wallenstein?”
“Frankenstein.”
“Of course. Frankenstein. Mrs. Shelley. The poet’s wife. Or daughter.” He suddenly laughed. “Our moulages have a curious property—autonomic life capability. For example, if you cut off some part of their bodies, the part will live on. Separately. Without any physiological solutions to nourish it. They brought one like that to the institute recently. A lab assistant from Boyd told me about it.”
Valentine laughed uproariously.
“Isn’t it time we headed for home, Valentine?” Noonan asked, glancing at his watch. “I still have some important business.”
“Let’s go.” Valentine tried hard to insert his face into the glasses and finally had to take the frame with both hands to put them on his nose. “Do you have a car?”
“Yes. I’ll drive you.” They paid the check and headed for the door. Valentine kept making mock salutes, greeting lab workers who were curiously watching one of the great men of world physics. At the door, greeting the broadly smiling doorman, he knocked off his glasses, and all three of them scrambled to catch them.
“Tomorrow I’m running an experiment. You know, it’s an interesting thing….” Valentine was muttering as he climbed into the Peugeot.
He went on to describe the experiment. Noonan drove him to the science complex.
They’re afraid, too, he thought, getting back into the car. The highbrows are also scared. And that’s the way it should be. They should be more afraid than all us regular folk put together. We don’t understand a thing, and they understand how much they don’t. They look into the bottomless pit and know that it’s inevitable, they must go down into it. Their hearts catch, but they must go down, and descend they do, but how, and what will they find at the bottom, and most important, will they be able to climb out? Meanwhile, we mere mortals look the other way, so to speak. Listen, maybe that’s how it should be. Let it all run its course, and we’ll just get by on our own. He was right: humanity’s most heroic deed was surviving and intending to survive. But he’d still tell the visitors to go to hell, if he could. Why couldn’t they have had their picnic somewhere else. Like the Moon. Or Mars. You heartless trash, he thought, just like all the rest, even if you do know how to curl up space. So they had themselves a picnic. A picnic.
What’s the best way to deal with my picnickers? he thought, driving slowly down the brightly lit wet streets. What would be the cleverest way to handle it? Following the law of least action, like in mechanics. What the hell use is my blankety-blank engineering degree if I can’t even figure out the best way to trap that legless son of a bitch?
He parked in front of the house in which Redrick Schuhart lived and sat in the car, planning his opening gambit. Then he removed the so-so, got out of the car, and only then noticed that the house looked uninhabited. Almost all the windows were dark, there was nobody in the park, and even the lights in the park were out. It reminded him of what he was about to see, and he shivered. He even considered the possibility of phoning Schuhart and talking with him in the car or in some quiet bar, but he rejected the idea. For a whole lot of reasons. And besides, he said to himself, let’s not behave like all those characters who ran out like rats deserting a sinking ship.
He went into the main entrance and slowly up the unswept stairs. It was quiet and many of the doors leading from the landings were ajar or wide open. It smelled damp and dusty in the apartments. He stopped before Redrick’s door, smoothed his hair, sighed deeply, and rang the bell. It was still behind the door for a while, then the floor creaked, the lock turned, and the door opened quietly. He hadn’t heard the footsteps.
Monkey, Schuhart’s daughter, stood in the doorway. A bright light fell from the foyer onto the landing, and at first Noonan could only see the girl’s dark silhouette. He thought how much she had grown in the last few months. Then she stepped back into the foyer and he saw her face. His throat went dry for a second.
“Hello, Maria,” he said, trying to be as gentle as possible. “How are you, Monkey?”
She did not reply. Silently and soundlessly she backed away from the door into the living room, looking at him from under her eye-brews. It looked as though she did not recognize him. To tell the truth, he couldn’t recognize her either. It’s the Zone, he thought. Damn.
“Who’s there?” Guta asked, looking out of the kitchen. “God, it’s Dick! Where did you disappear to? You know, Redrick is back!”
She hurried over to him drying her hands with the towel slung over her shoulder. Still as beautiful, energetic, strong, but she looked strained somehow: her face was thinner, and her eyes looked … feverish, perhaps?
He kissed her cheek, gave her his raincoat and hat.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t get away to come over. Is he in?”
“He’s in,” Guta said. “There’s somebody with him. We should be leaving soon, they’ve been talking a long time. Go on, Dick.
He took several steps down the hall and stopped ill the door to the living room. An old man was sitting at the table. A mileage. Motionless and listing slightly. The pink light from the lampshade fell on his broad dark face, his sunken, toothless mouth, and his still, lusterless eyes. And Noonan smelled it immediately. He knew that it was just his imagination, that the odor lasted only the first few days and then disappeared completely, but Richard Noonan smelled it with his memory—the fetid heavy smell of turned-up earth.