Arkady Strugatsky - Roadside Picnic

“Oh, and you aren’t a stalker anymore?”

“I’ve served my time, thanks to you—and I’ve given it up since,” I say. “I’m done with it. Thank you, Captain, for opening my eyes. If not for you—”

“What were you doing in the restricted area?”

“What do you mean? I work here. For two years now.”

And to finish this unpleasant conversation, I take out my ID and show it to Captain Quarterblad. He takes it, examines it, practically sniffs the seals, and seems almost ready to lick it. He returns my ID, looking satisfied; his eyes have lit up, even his cheeks colored.

“Sorry, Schuhart,” he says. “I didn’t expect this. That means my advice to you didn’t go to waste. Really, that’s great. Believe it or not, I always figured you’d make something of yourself. I just couldn’t imagine that a guy like you…”

And off he goes. Well, I think, just my luck to cure another melancholic. Of course, I listen to him, looking down in embarrassment, nodding, gesturing awkwardly, and even shyly toeing the pavement. The goons behind the captain listen for a while, then get queasy, I bet, and go off somewhere more exciting. Meanwhile, the captain drones on about my future: knowledge is light, ignorance is darkness, God always values and rewards honest labor. Anyway, he tries to feed me the same boring bullshit that the jail priest harassed us with every Sunday. And I need a drink—I just can’t wait. All right, I think, Red, you can endure even this. Patience, Red, patience! He can’t go on like this for long, he’s already out of breath… And then, to my relief, one of the patrol cars signals to us. Captain Quarterblad looks around, grunts in annoyance, and extends his hand to me.

“All right,” he says. “It was nice to meet you, honest man Schuhart. I would have been happy to drink with you to that. Can’t have anything too strong, doctor’s orders, but I could have had a beer with you. But you see—duty calls! Well, we’ll meet again,” he says.

God forbid, I think. But I shake his hand and keep blushing and toeing the pavement—doing everything he wants me to. Then he finally leaves, and I make a beeline for the Borscht.

The Borscht is always empty at this hour. Ernest is standing behind the bar, wiping the glasses and holding them up to the light. This is an amazing thing, by the way: anytime you come in, these barmen are always wiping glasses, as if their salvation depended on it. He’ll stand here all day—pick up a glass, squint at it, hold it up to the light, breathe on it, and get wiping; he’ll do that for a bit, take another look, this time through the bottom of the glass, and start wiping again…

“Hey, Ernie!” I say. “Leave that thing alone, you’ll wipe a hole through it!”

He looks at me through the glass, grumbles something indistinct, and without saying a word pours me a shot of vodka. I clamber up onto the stool, take a sip, grimace, shake my head, and take another sip. The fridge is humming, the jukebox is playing something quiet, Ernest is puffing into another glass—it’s nice and peaceful. I finish my drink, putting my glass on the bar. Ernest immediately pours me another one. “Feeling better?” he mutters. “Thawing a bit, stalker?”

“You just keep wiping,” I say. “You know, one guy wiped for a while, and he finally summoned an evil spirit. He had a great life after that.”

“Who was this?” asks Ernest suspiciously.

“He was a barman here,” I answer. “Before your time.”

“So what happened?”

“Oh, nothing. Why do you think we got a Visit? He just wouldn’t stop wiping. Who do you figure visited us, huh?”

“You’re full of it today,” says Ernie with approval.

He goes to the kitchen and comes back with a plate of fried sausages. He puts the plate in front of me, passes me the ketchup, and returns to his glasses. Ernest knows his stuff. He’s got an eye for these things, can instantly tell when a stalker’s fresh from the Zone, when he’s got swag, and Ernie knows what a stalker needs. Ernie’s a good guy. Our benefactor.

After I finish the sausages, I light a cigarette and try to estimate how much money Ernest is making on us. I don’t know the going prices in Europe, but I’ve heard rumors that an empty sells for almost two and a half thousand, while Ernie only gives us four hundred. The batteries go for at least a hundred, and we’re lucky to get twenty. That’s probably how it is for everything. Of course, getting the swag to Europe must cost a bundle. You gotta grease a lot of palms—even the stationmaster is probably paid off. Anyway, if you think about it, Ernest doesn’t pocket that much—fifteen to twenty percent at the most—and if he gets caught, that’s ten years of hard labor, guaranteed.

Here my generous meditations are interrupted by some polite type. I don’t even hear him come in, but there he is at my right elbow, asking, “May I sit down?”

“Of course!” I reply. “Go right ahead.”

It’s a skinny little guy with a pointy nose, wearing a bow tie. He looks familiar, I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t remember where. He climbs onto a nearby stool and says to Ernie, “Bourbon, please!” And immediately to me, “Excuse me, I think we’ve met. You work at the International Institute, right?”

“Yes,” I say. “And you?”

He promptly pulls a business card out of his pocket and puts it in front of me. I read “Aloysius Macnaught, Immigration Agent.” Right, of course I know him. He pesters people to leave town. Someone must really want us all to leave Harmont. Almost half the population is already gone, but no, they have to get rid of everyone. I push his card away with one finger and tell him, “No, thanks. I’m not interested. I dream of living my entire life in my hometown.”

“But why?” he asks eagerly. “I mean no offense, but what’s keeping you here?”

Right, like I’ll tell him what it really is. “What a question!” I say. “Sweet childhood memories. My first kiss in the park. My mommy and daddy. The first time I got drunk, in this very bar. Our police station, so dear to my heart.” I take a heavily used handkerchief out of my pocket and put it to my eyes. “No,” I say. “No way!”

He laughs, takes a small sip of bourbon, and says thoughtfully, “I can’t understand you people. Life in Harmont is hard. The city is under military control. The provisions are mediocre. The Zone is so close, it’s like living on top of a volcano. An epidemic could break out at any moment, or something even worse. I understand the old folks. They’re used to this place, they don’t want to leave. But someone like you… How old are you? Can’t be more than twenty-two, twenty-three… You have to understand, our agency is a nonprofit, there’s no one paying us to do this. We just want people to leave this hellhole, to return to normal life. Look, we even cover the costs of relocation, we find you work after the move… For somebody young, like you, we’d pay for your education. No, I don’t get it!”

“What,” I say, “no one wants to leave?”

“No, not exactly no one. Some do agree, especially people with families. But not the young or the old. What is it about this place? It’s just a hole, a provincial town…”

And here I give it to him. “Mr. Aloysius Macnaught!” I say. “You are absolutely right. Our little town is a hole. Always was and always will be. Except right now,” I say, “it’s a hole into the future. And the stuff we fish out of this hole will change your whole stinking world. Life will be different, the way it should be, and no one will want for anything. That’s our hole for you. There’s knowledge pouring through this hole. And when we figure it out, we’ll make everyone rich, and we’ll fly to the stars, and we’ll go wherever we want. That’s the kind of hole we have here…”