Arkady Strugatsky - Roadside Picnic

At this point I trail off, because I notice that Ernie is looking at me in astonishment, and I feel embarrassed. In general, I don’t like using other people’s words, even if I do happen to like them. Especially since they come out kind of funny. When Kirill’s talking, you can’t stop listening, you almost forget to close your mouth. And here I’m saying the same stuff, but something seems off. Maybe that’s because Kirill never slipped Ernest swag under the counter. Oh well…

Here my Ernie comes to and hurriedly pours me a large shot: Snap out of it, man, what’s wrong with you today? Meanwhile, the pointy-nosed Mr. Macnaught takes another sip of bourbon and says, “Yes, of course. The perpetual batteries, the blue panacea… But do you actually think it’ll be like you said?”

“What I actually think is none of your business,” I say. “I was talking about the town. Now, speaking for myself, I’ll say: What’s so great about your Europe? The eternal boredom? You work all day, watch TV all night; when that’s done, you’re off to bed with some bitch, breeding delinquents. The strikes, the demonstrations, the never-ending politics… To hell with your Europe!”

“Really, why does it have to be Europe?”

“Oh,” I say, “it’s the same story all over, and in the Antarctic it’s cold, too.”

And you know the amazing thing: I’m telling him this, and I completely believe in what I’m saying. And our Zone, the evil bitch, the murderess, is at that moment a hundred times dearer to me than all their Europes and Africas. And I’m not even drunk yet, I simply imagine for a moment how I’d come home strung out after work in a herd of like-minded drones, how I’d get squashed on all sides in their subway, how I’d become jaded and weary of life.

“What do you say?” he asks Ernie.

“I’m a businessman,” Ernie replies with authority. “I’m not some young punk! I’ve invested money in this business. The commandant comes in here sometimes, a general, nothing to sneeze at. Why would I leave?”

Mr. Aloysius Macnaught starts telling him something with numbers, but I’m no longer listening. I take a good swig from my glass, get some change from my pocket, climb down from the stool, and go over to the jukebox to get things going. They have this one song here called “Don’t Come Back Unless You’re Ready.” It does wonders for me after the Zone… All right, the jukebox is screeching away, so I pick up my glass and go into the corner to settle scores with the one-armed bandit. And time begins to fly.

Just as I’m losing my last nickel, Gutalin and Richard Noonan barge into our friendly establishment. Gutalin is plastered already—rolling his eyes and looking to pick a fight—while Richard Noonan is tenderly holding on to his elbow and distracting him with jokes. A pretty pair! Gutalin is huge, curly haired, and as black as an officer’s boot, with arms down to his knees, while Dick is small, round, pink, and mellow, practically aglow.

“Hey!” yells Dick when he sees me. “Red’s here, too! Come here, Red!”

“That’s right!” bellows Gutalin. “There are only two people in this town—Red and me! All the others are pigs, spawn of Satan. Red! You also serve Satan, but you’re still human.”

I come over to them with my glass. Gutalin grabs me by the coat, sits me down at their table, and says, “Sit down, Red! Sit down, servant of Satan! I love you. Let us weep over the sins of humanity—weep in despair!”

“Let us weep,” I say. “Swallow the tears of sin.”

“Because the day is nigh,” proclaims Gutalin. “Because the pale horse has been saddled, and the rider has put a foot in the stirrup. And futile are the prayers of the worshippers of Satan. And only those who renounce him shall be saved. Thou, of human flesh, whom Satan has seduced, who play with his toys and covet his treasures—I tell thee, thou art blind! Awake, fools, before it’s too late! Stamp on the devil’s baubles!” Here he comes to an abrupt halt, as if forgetting what’s next. “Can I get a drink in this place?” he asks in a different voice. “Where am I? You know, Red, I got fired again. An agitator, they said. I was telling them, ‘Awake, you’re blind, plunging into the abyss and dragging other blind men behind you!’ They just laughed. So I socked the boss in the face and left. Now they’ll arrest me. And for what?”

Dick comes over and puts a bottle on the table.

“I’m paying today!” I yell to Ernest.

Dick looks sideways at me.

“It’s all aboveboard,” I say. “We’ll be drinking my bonus.”

“You went into the Zone?” asks Dick. “Did you bring anything out?”

“A full empty,” I say. “For the altar to science. And pocket-fuls of joy. Are you gonna pour or not?”

“An empty!” Gutalin rumbles sadly. “You risked your life for some empty! You’re still alive, but you brought another work of Satan into this world. And you just don’t know, Red, how much sin and grief—”

“Quiet, Gutalin,” I tell him sternly. “Eat, drink, and be merry, because I came back alive. A toast to success!”

That toast gets us going. Gutalin becomes completely depressed—sitting there sobbing, liquid gushing from his eyes like water from a faucet. It’s OK, I’ve seen him do this. It’s one of his stages—streaming tears and preaching that Satan put the Zone there to tempt us, that you can’t take anything out of it, and, if you do, put it back, and live your life as if the Zone didn’t exist. Leave Satan’s works for Satan. I like him, Gutalin. I like eccentrics in general. When he has enough money, he buys swag from anyone, without haggling, and then he sneaks into the Zone at night and buries it there… Lord, is he bawling! Oh well, he’ll cheer up yet.

“What’s a full empty?” asks Dick. “I’ve heard of empties, but what’s a full one? Never heard of it.”

I explain it to him. He nods, smacks his lips. “Yes,” he says. “That’s interesting. That’s something new. Who did you go with? The Russian guy?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “I went with Kirill and Tender. You know, our lab assistant.”

“You must have had your hands full with them.”

“Not at all. They both did pretty well. Especially Kirill, he’s a born stalker,” I say. “If he had more experience, learned some proper patience, I’d go into the Zone with him every day.”

“And every night?” he asks with a drunken laugh.

“Stop that,” I say. “Enough with the jokes.”

“I know,” he says. “Enough with the jokes, or I might get a punch in the face. Let’s say you can take a couple swings at me sometime…”

“Who’s getting punched?” Gutalin comes to life. “Which one of you?”

We grab his arms, barely getting him into his seat. Dick sticks a cigarette in his teeth and lights it. We calm him down. Meanwhile, people keep coming in. There’s no room left at the bar, and most tables are taken. Ernest has called up his girls, and they’re running around, fetching drinks—beer for some, cocktails or vodka for others. Lately I’ve been noticing a lot of new faces in town—young punks with colorful scarves down to the floor. I mention this to Dick, and he nods.

“That’s right,” he says. “They’re starting a lot of construction. The Institute’s putting up three new buildings, and they’re also going to wall off the Zone from the cemetery to the old ranch. The good times for stalkers are coming to an end.”

“Like we stalkers ever had them,” I say. At the same time, I think, What the hell is this? That means I won’t be able to work on the side. Oh well, might be for the best—less temptation. I’ll go into the Zone during the day, like an honest man; the money isn’t as good, of course, but it’s much safer. There’s the boot, the specsuits, and all that crap, and I won’t give a damn about patrols. I can live on my salary, and I’ll drink my bonuses.