Redrick shook his bright red head.
“They haven’t laid the phone lines to where he is tonight. Let’s go.
He went into the living room and slammed the bottle on the table.
“We’re going to celebrate, pops!” he said to the motionless old man. “This here is Richard Noonan, our friend! Dick, this is my pop, Schuhart Senior.”
Richard Noonan, his mind rolled up into an impenetrable ball, grinned from ear to ear, waved, and said in the direction of the moulage:
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Schuhart. How are you? You know, we’ve met before, Red,” he said to Schuhart, Jr., who was puttering at the bar. “We saw each other once, but very briefly, of course.”
“Sit down,” Redrick said to him, indicating the chair opposite the old man. “If you’re going to talk to him, speak up. He can’t hear a thing.”
He set up the glasses, quickly opened the bottle, and turned to Noonan.
“You pour. Just a little for pops, just cover the bottom.”
Noonan took his time pouring. The old man sat in the same position, staring at the wall. And he did not react when Noonan moved his glass closer to him. Noonan had already adjusted to the new situation. It was a game, terrible and pathetic. Red was playing the game, and he joined in, as he had always joined other peoples’ games all his life-terrifying ones, pathetic ones, shameful ones, and ones much more dangerous than this. Redrick raised his glass and said: “Well, I guess we’re off?” Noonan looked over at the old man in a completely natural manner. Redrick impatiently clinked his glass against Noonan’s and said: “We’re off, we’re off.” Then Noonan nodded, completely naturally, and they drank.
Redrick, eyes shining, began to talk in his excited and slightly artificial tone.
“That’s it, brother! jail will never see me again. If you only knew how good it is to be home; I have the dough and I’ve picked out a new little cottage for myself, with a garden—as good as Buzzard’s place. You know, I had wanted to emigrate, I had decided when was still in jail. I mean, what was I sitting in this lousy two-bit town for? I thought, let the whole place drop dead. So I get back, and there’s a surprise for me—emigration has been forbidden! Have we suddenly become plague-ridden during the last two years?”
He talked and talked, and Noonan nodded, sipped his whiskey, and interjected sympathetic noises and rhetorical questions. Then he started asking about the cottage—what kind was it, where was it, what did it cost?—and then they argued. Noonan insisted that the cottage was expensive and inconveniently located. He took out his address book, flipped through it, and named the locations of abandoned cottages that were being sold for a song. And the repairs would be almost free, because he could apply for emigration, be turned down, and sue for compensation, which would pay for the repairs.
“I see that you’re involved in nonemigration, too.”
“I’m involved in everything a little,” Noonan replied with a wink.
“I know, I know, I’ve heard all about your affairs.”
Noonan put on a wide-eyed look of surprise, raised his finger to his pursed lips, and nodded in the direction of the kitchen.
“All right, don’t worry, everybody knows about it,” Redrick said.
“Money never stinks. I know that for sure now. But getting Mosul to be your manager. I almost fell on the floor laughing when I heard! Letting a bull into the china shop. He’s a psyche, you know. I’ve known him since we were kids.”
He fell silent and looked at the old man. A shudder crossed his face, and Noonan was amazed to see the look of real, sincere love and tenderness on that tough freckled mug of his.
Watching him, Noonan remembered what had happened when Boyd’s lab workers showed up here for the moulage. There were two lab assistants, both strong young men, athletes and all that, and a doctor from the city hospital with two orderlies, tough and rough burly guys used to lugging heavy stretchers and overpowering hysterical patients. One of the lab assistants later told him that “that redhead” at first didn’t seem to understand what was going on, because he let them into the apartment to examine his father. They probably would have gotten the old man away, because it looked as if Redrick thought that they were putting his old man in the hospital for observation. But the stupid orderlies, who had spent their time during the preliminary negotiations gawking at Guta washing the kitchen windows, grabbed the old man like a log when they were called in—and dropped him on the floor. Redrick went crazy. Then the jerk of a doctor volunteered an explanation of what was going on. Redrick listened for a minute or two and suddenly exploded without any warning like a hydrogen bomb The assistant who told the story did not remember how he ended up on the street. The red devil got them all down the stairs, all five of them, and not one left under his own power. They all shot out of the foyer like cannonballs. Two ended up unconscious on the sidewalk and Redrick chased the other three for four blocks. Then he returned and bashed in all the windows on the institute car—the driver had made a run for it when he saw what was happening.
“I learned how to make a new cocktail at this bar,” Redrick was saying as he poured more whiskey. “It’s called Witches’ Jelly, I’ll make you one later, after we’ve eaten. Brother, it’s not something you should have on an empty stomach—it’s dangerous to the health: one drink makes your arms and legs numb. I don’t care what you say, Dick, I’m going to treat you royally today. We’ll remember the good old days and the Borscht. Poor old Ernie is still in the cooler, you know that?” He drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and casually asked: “What’s new at the institute? Have they tackled witches’ jelly yet? You know, sort of fell behind science a bit.”
Noonan understood why Redrick was bringing up the topic. He threw up his hands in dismay.
“Are you kidding? Did you know what happened with that jelly? Have you heard of the Currigan Labs? There’s this little private supplier.. . So they got themselves some jelly….”
He told him about the catastrophe. And about the shocking fact that they never tied up the loose ends, never found out where the lab had gotten it. Redrick listened, Feigning distraction, clucking his tongue, and shaking his head. He decisively splashed more whiskey into their glasses.
“That’s what they deserve, the bloodsuckers. I hope they all choke.”
They drank. Redrick looked over at his father and a shudder crossed his face once more.
“Guta!” he shouted. “Are you going to starve us much longer? She’s knocking herself out for you, you know,” he told Noonan. “She wants to make your favorite salad, with crabmeat. She bought a supply a while ago just in case you turned up. Well, how are things at the institute in general? Found anything new? I hear you have robots working full force but not getting too much out of it.”
Noonan started in on institute business, and while he was talking, Monkey appeared noiselessly at the table by the old man. She stood there with her hairy paws on the table and then in a perfectly childlike way, she leaned against the moulage and put her head on his shoulder. Noonan went on chatting but thought, as he looked at those two horrors born of the Zone: My God, what else? What else has to be done to us before we understand? Isn’t this enough? But he knew that it wasn’t. He knew that millions upon millions of people knew nothing and wanted to know nothing, and even if they found out would ooh and aah for five minutes and then go back to their own routines. It was time to go, he thought wildly. The hell with Burbridge, the hell with Lemchen, and the hell with this goddamned family!
“What are you staring at them for?” Redrick asked softly. “Don’t worry, it won’t harm her. They even say that they generate good health.”
“Yes, I know,” Noonan said and drained his glass.
Guta came in, ordered Redrick to set the table, and set a large silver bowl with Noonan’s favorite salad on the table.
“Well, friends,” Redrick announced. “Now we’re going to have ourselves a feast!”
4. REDRICK SCHUHART, AGE 31
The valley had cooled overnight, and by dawn it was actually cold. They were walking along the embankment, stepping over the rotten ties between the rusty rails, and Redrick watched the drops of condensed fog glisten on Arthur Burbridge’s leather jacket. The boy was striding along lightly and merrily, as though the exhausting night, the nervous tension that still made every vein in his body ache, and the two horrible hours they spent huddled back to back for warmth in a tortured half-sleep on top of the hill, waiting for the flood of the green stuff to drip past them and disappear into the ravine—as though all that had not happened.