Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

Roadside Picnic
Roadside Picnic
Roadside Picnic
Ebook241 pages4 hours

Roadside Picnic

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

4/5

()

Read preview

About this ebook

Red Schuhart is a stalker, one of those young rebels who are compelled, in spite of extreme danger, to venture illegally into the Zone to collect the mysterious artifacts that the alien visitors left scattered around. His life is dominated by the place and the thriving black market in the alien products. But when he and his friend Kirill go into the Zone together to pick up a full empty, something goes wrong. And the news he gets from his girlfriend upon his return makes it inevitable that he'll keep going back to the Zone, again and again, until he finds the answer to all his problems.

First published in 1972, Roadside Picnic is still widely regarded as one of the greatest science fiction novels, despite the fact that it has been out of print in the United States for almost thirty years. This authoritative new translation corrects many errors and omissions and has been supplemented with a foreword by Ursula K. Le Guin and a new afterword by Boris Strugatsky explaining the strange history of the novel's publication in Russia.

Editor's Note

Stalker’s inspiration…

Strange & haunting, this Soviet Sci-Fi classic about the aftermath of an alien visit presents a smart & cynical view of the limits of human understanding.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMay 1, 2012
ISBN9781613743447
Roadside Picnic

Read more from Arkady Strugatsky

Related to Roadside Picnic

Titles in the series (23)

View More

Related ebooks

Science Fiction For You

View More

Related articles

Reviews for Roadside Picnic

Rating: 4.17741935483871 out of 5 stars
4/5

124 ratings61 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    A fantastic concept for a science fiction story, that advanced alien visitors stopped off on earth for a rest, leaving behind various bits of junk and technology while being completely oblivious of humankind, kind of how a family on a road trip might litter and enjoy themselves carelessly, oblivious to animals and insects. The resulting items left in various zones on the planet have strange properties, sometimes highly valuable, sometimes lethal, and a black market quickly forms, fed by expert scavengers called stalkers who lead dangerous expeditions to retrieve them. It’s a great tale and very well told by the Strugatsky Brothers, my favorite I’ve read from them.There are many aspects of the story that made me think of life in the Soviet Union (the story was written in the 1970s) - the suppression of information, beauracracy, spies/informants, an industrial wasteland (almost a premonition of Cherynobyl), indeterminate/random danger, and the black market... it all seems to come from the conditions the story was written under. You can read more into it, e.g. the idealism of technology benefiting man as maybe an echo of the dream of communism, which may be a stretch, or see what seems to be spelled out directly, which is the heart’s innermost desire for liberty and happiness. I interpreted the story as a veiled reference to navigating one’s life in the absurd, dangerous environment of communism, maybe fueled in this view by Tarkovsky’s Stalker which seems to amplify it, but in the afterword Boris Strugatsky, writing years later, said it really wasn’t criticism of the existing order, and his only headache was getting the work past censors over 8(!) years, as they objected to “immoral behavior”, physical violence, and vulgar expressions, not unlike the Catholic League of Decency’s power over film in the days of the Hays Code in America. It’s kind of hard to believe, particularly with the ending, which is so spine tingling and pure, but that’s what he said - and which others far brighter than me have reinforced. It’s not an anti-Soviet book, and the authors were not dissidents - that’s just a projection of mine.Regardless, it’s absolutely brilliant, tightly told, and works on a literal level just fine. There is action, a gritty antihero (“Red”), and mind-bending effects of the technology, including mutation and the dead risen from their graves. The idea of dangerous technology in the hands of flawed humanity resonates, as does putting man’s intelligence and importance in perspective - perhaps completely unable to even communicate to aliens, ala the situation in Stanislaw Lem’s Solaris, and picking up bits of their technology with no more understanding of it than an ape might understand a computer. There’s lots to love here, and it would be interesting to see another film adaptation that remained more true to the plot in the book.Just this quote, on religion:“The issue is that man, at least the average man, can easily overcome this need [for knowledge]. In my opinion, the need doesn’t exist at all. There’s a need to understand, but that doesn’t require knowledge. The God hypothesis, for example, allows you to have an unparalleled understanding of absolutely everything while knowing absolutely nothing...Give a man a highly simplified model of the world and interpret every event on the basis of this simple model. This approach requires no knowledge.”
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    a book with a soul.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Like another reviewer has already observed, I too wish I'd read this before the Southern Reach trilogy - but what's done is done -

    This story in some ways made me just hum "what a long strange trip it's been" over and over, while at other times maybe I'd just shake my head at how impenetrable some of the plot devices and characters are - but never does this story let you feel very at home & that is what marks it as true science fiction for me - the reader is forced here to inhabit a foreign (post pseudo contact) world but will never be comfortable there !
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    An unusual first contact story, although it is far more than that. The tension at the beginning and end is intense and extended. The characters are memorable. It is overwhelmingly dark, almost hopeless, almost. There is a similarity to Vonnegut, and he is even given a cameo mention in the story, but I found it very much like Philip K. Dick in its surprising quirky details and crossover into fantasy. PKD however is lighter in tone than these Russian brothers. I’ll definitely read some of their other works.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Cold War Era Soviet Science Fiction about alien visitations to Earth. Color me intrigued. This book was written in the early 70's by the Strugastsky Brothers. It was initially published as serials in magazines and the first English translation was published in the US in 1977. The book was censored and then highly edited in Soviet Russia, and an author approved version wasn't published in Russia until after 1990.Before the book starts, aliens have visited Earth and left 6 Zones around the world where they left detritus and artifacts and changed the landscape that makes it dangerous to humans. Red is one of a shady group of Stalkers who illegally go into the Zones to harvest and collect these artifacts, such as perpetual batteries and other technologies that now drive modern society. But the Zones also have traps and pitfalls that Red and other Stalkers have to confront. The scenes in the Zone were very exciting and trippy, but there was an expositional section in the middle that was a little slow for me.Overall, a very weird and interesting story. Somewhat reminded me of Jeff Vandermer's Southern Reach Trilogy with the forbidden lands and the mystery that surrounds them. Its been out of print in the US for many years, but a new translation was recently published with a forward by Ursula K Leguin 8/10S: 7/10/17 - 7/19/17 (10 Days)
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This 1970s Russian SF novel is considered something of a classic of the field, and I can definitely see why. It's based on a fantastic idea, one that really gets under your skin: Thirteen years ago, aliens briefly visited Earth. Everywhere they landed, bizarre, destructive, inexplicable things happened. Then they took off again, giving no indication of why they'd come in the first place, but leaving the places they touched forever changed into something weird and dangerous, scattered with unfathomable alien technologies and equally unfathomable hazards. People go into these zones to scavenge for these technologies, but often they don't come out again. Or they come out changed. And creepy, impossible things continue to happen around them. What does all this mean? Nobody knows for sure, but one character speculates that perhaps the visitors' stop on Earth was no more than a roadside picnic, and these altered landscapes and abandoned miracles are nothing more than their discarded garbage and forgotten tools, and the careless tracks of their passing. Like I said, it's a fantastic concept.The story itself, which focuses mainly on one of these scavengers (or "stalkers") isn't very substantially plotty or anything, but it pulled me along nicely, anyway. The setting is a little odd, because it's not quite anywhere in particular, under not quite any political system in particular (an artifact, perhaps, of the restrictions the authors were under while writing in Soviet Russia). But while I found that a little distracting, it mostly works OK in the end. The one really sour note is the book's treatment of women, which is abysmal, even for the 70s: every woman in the story is either a sex object, or is ordered about like a servant, or both, and none of them have the faintest shred of a personality. Still, as annoyed as I was by that, I'm still very glad to have finally filled this gap in my reading of the genre.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Aliens came to visit. Aliens have gone. And what's left on Earth is basically a couple of piles of trash from these picnics. Wait, that isn't quite as rosy as it sounds - they're disaster zones, and the "trash" is dangerous as hell. Some think that meticulously retrieving and probing the mysterious artefacts and items would yield interesting scientific results. Some think that the zones should be left alone. Some think there's a black market out there for all the weird stuff. So in come the stalkers - people skilled in traversing the dangers of the visitation zones, some using their skills with permissions and proper gear, some taking the harder way and just going there on their own."Roadside Picnic" is a bit disjointed book - a series of episodes in and out of the visitation zone. Compared to the film "Stalker" that was loosely based on the novel, the story focuses a little bit more on the milieu and lifes and situations and feelings of individual characters, and doesn't really have as much direction. On the other hand, "Stalker" is a slow and meditative film, while "Roadside Picnic" is positively action-packed at times. The protagonist, Red Schuhart, also isn't one upholding all that solemn and contemplative narrative, and goes for a bit more of relaxation.Reading this book was part of my "oh damn, now that I have a tablet, I'll read all the ebooks I've wanted to read" challenge. Most of those books were from Project Gutenberg, but while Roadside Picnic isn't public domain, the book and its first English translation has been available on the web for a long time through official Strugatsky websites. Years ago, I even tried feeding the novel through text-to-speech. Never quite completed it, but now I did. Of course, I had to deal with the fact that the reader app didn't really like the *fascinating* HTML conversion, so reading experience wasn't optimal. It went okay, though.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A fabulous concept for a book. The stalker subplot is the highlight of the book, w immediate cash for items brought out of the zone. I thought the dialogue was a bit awkward, though that may just have been the translation in the pdf that I read.. Could have been 70's, could have been 1920's Russian sci fi. I would have liked more closure at the end also.I am interested in watching the movie also, but you know how that goes...
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Excellent beginning to this novel and a fascinating central idea - our First Contact with extraterrestrial life being with their litter. There's a not-too-subtle point being made here about our own exploitation and degradation of our environment.The middle is interesting, as it rather disjointedly develops some of the characters and shows how their lives are affected by contact with the alien artifacts. Little is explained and much is hinted, which is simultaneously tantalising and frustrating.The last chapter I found a disappointing anticlimax to what had gone before. I didn't expect everything to be explained but this felt like it was a couple of pages short of the actual finale. A fine but flawed book.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Fascinating idea: I love this view of contact with aliens, the idea that maybe they'll come along and they won't care about us, they'll just leave their litter here on earth and not care what happens to us because of it. Obviously the novel unpacks that, but that's the basic idea at the heart of it. And as with so many masterworks of SF, the book is mostly worth reading for that: the characters are indifferent to unpleasant, and only a couple of the relationships are important.The end is -- whoa. It's awful. And it's somehow the more awful because we don't see what comes of it, whether it was remotely worth it.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    13 years ago, something happened near the city of Harmont. Known as The Visit, no one is quite sure exactly what happened, but something changed in a five-kilometer are. People died. Large gravitational traps appeared pulling anything to the ground, from a tiny bird to a large helicopter. Shadows became alive and dangerous. The air exploded like flame in an instant. And ordinary object suddenly transmuted into valuable items: spacells that provide electricity indefinitely; pins that sing if one pinched long enough; two saucer-sized discs of copper with nothing between them yet inseparable and weighing almost fourteen pounds (an "empty"). Good money was to be found in retrieving such objects and bringing them back for scientific study (or even private collections).Redrick Schuhart is a Stalker, one of those daring individuals who venture into the area known as the Zone, and one of the best at his craft. The prospect of bringing in a full "empty" -- two of those saucer discs but with a blue substance between them -- spurs Red into making another trek into the Zone -- that, along with a hefty sum of money. But his comrade Kirill innocently brings something back from this trip, something that convinces Red that these trips are too dangerous. But the Zone won't let him go that easily, not when the effects of living so close to and venturing into the Zone too often take their toll on his daughter.Convinced by his old comrade the Vulture that an ultimate object exists in the Zone -- a Golden Sphere that will grant your innermost wish -- Red makes one last voyage into the damaged area to hopefully find a way to protect his daughter.A remarkable trip into science fiction, "Roadside Picnic" creates a fantastical landscape, transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary. Simple, forgotten objects take on new life, new meaning, and it's amazing watching Red and his traveling companions carefully pick their way through the Zone. The world inside the Zone doesn't look changed, but nothing is as it once was. Red uses remembrances of past trips, unintentional landmarks left by former stalkers, and even something as simple as tossing a nut or bolt on the path ahead to determine the correct path. Red and others constantly try to understand what created the Zone -- was it simply a change in nature, portending what the future may hold? Or was it an alien visitation? Did they stop by Earth for a few moments and leave their garbage, what Red and others now treasure as the mysterious objects, behind? And throughout, Red tries to hold on to some kind of hope, that something exists in the Zone that will answer all his questions and bring about the miraculous change that his life needs. It's a great book that should be a part of any science fiction library.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    It's good an a fascinating first contact story but I prefer the visuals of Stalker, the film inspired by the novel.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    More of a 4.5, but I gave it The Bump. Such a great premise.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The highlight of Roadside Picnic is the setting. After a mysterious alien visitation, six locations around the world are transformed from everyday places to zones filled with strange phenomena, hazards, and alien artifacts. What was once normal is now a lawless pocket of space attracting those that hunger for wealth, or for knowledge. Governments scramble to get the zones under their control, but they have little luck in stemming the flow of people going into the zones, or of artifacts coming out. The best explorers of these new areas, the ones most familiar with the dangers and the treasures that they contain, are known as stalkers.

    The setting by itself is enough to make this story memorable- a normal industrial town is now a place of mystery, death, and power. The characters who explore the zone are modern explorers and treasure hunters. It is little wonder that the zone of Roadside Picnic has inspired films, video games, and other books. Reading the book makes you hungry to learn more about the zone, both on the macro level (what is the zone's purpose, if it has one at all?) and on the micro level (what is a rattling napkin, and what does it do?). The Strugatsky brothers were smart enough not to answer too many of these questions about the zone, only providing enough information for you to get a feel for being in the zone, not enough so that your intrigue is replaced by understanding.

    Besides the setting, though, Roadside Picnic also slips in a story about how fatherhood makes you take actions you never would have considered before, and how responsibilities and the passage of years leaves you stuck in a job that you'd rather leave behind, simply because you have no other options. The characters other than the main one are rather one dimensional and the writing is merely competent, not amazing, but otherwise this is a work well worth your time. I wouldn't have minded if it had gone on longer, and if that's not high praise I don't know what is.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Beautiful, yet unfulfilling, I am left with a hunger for more
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Roadside Picnic is a Soviet-era ideological tract about the evils of Capitalism. Interesting idea for the zone but science fiction in the service of ideology is par for the course of this sordid genre.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    A sf novel from the USSR era. An inspiration for the S.T.A.L.K.E.R movie and game. On a banned books list. Very much an enjoyable read.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    When I finished this story I was reminded of a comment that Rudy Rucker made back in the day about there were limits as to how weird one could make your aliens because our own world was probably about as weird as Humans can handle. Which is another way of saying that what "Roadside Picnic" really has going for it is existential dread, as our protagonist goes from young bravo seeking to make a fast buck from raiding alien artifacts to (over the course of a few years) a desperate man seeking answers to what has happened to his life, and knowing full well that he probably isn't equipped to understand those answers even if they're forthcoming. That the authors cut you no breaks on the ambiguity of the situation in the approved edition of the novel I consider a plus.What also makes this book look prescient is, on one hand, how it presages the Chernobyl Disaster, and on the other, how it apparently helped to inspire a whole genre of fiction and gaming (disaster-survival).
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Building the story on a series of what if's that involve a visit by aliens several years earlier and the artefacts they left behind and the cascade that follows from dealing with these. Red Schuhart is a man who deals with these artefacts, illegally and this has repercussions on his life, but the alien items are changing the world.It's an interesting look at a slightly different world, a world where aliens have changed things without really having interaction with the humans.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    When we meet Redrick Schuhart, the protagonist of this story, he is working as a laboratory assistant at the Institute of Extraterrestrial Cultures. But he is also a "stalker", only twenty-three when the book begins, and already an expert in the dangers and possibilities of The Zone. The Zone is one of several areas created from the remains of a brief alien visitation. Now gone, the aliens left in their wake both advanced items of technology and areas where the laws of physics no longer apply, or where strange substances and forms instantly kill or disable any human that comes into contact with them.We learn in the prologue through an interview with the Nobel laureate who discovered the source of the zones. humans have set up an institute that delves into the Zone in order to extract technology. It is the Zone that also attracts illegal Stalkers who venture into the Zone without the technological safeguards offered by the institute but for whom the potential rewards on the black market are far greater. As the story continues we follow Red as he first gets lured into the world of illegal Stalking and then, after a period in prison, as he prepares to venture deep into the Zone in search of a golden ball that is said to grant wishes.The main setting of the novel is in Harmont, a town near one of the zones in an unnamed country. The setting seems contemporary but, lacking veridical landmarks it takes on a dream-like quality. Red describes Harmont:"Our little town is a hole. Always was and always will be. Except right now, 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 . . ." (p 42)These thoughts provide a somewhat idealistic patina for the dangers Red and his cohorts face. About a quarter of the way into the story the narration shifts from first to third person. This transition occurs smoothly and allows for a type of objectivity for the reader after having been inside the head of Redrick Schuhart. It also allows the author to present scenes that Red is not aware of and to discuss ideas that are raised by the events in the story. I found the questions raised thought-provoking. What were the aliens doing on Earth and why did they stop here? Did they notice the existence of human life or were they oblivious to it?"'what if I turn out to be completely superfluous in their society?' He became more animated. 'What if we're all superfluous? . . . your question falls under the umbrella of a pseudoscience called xenology. Xenology is an unnatural mixture of science fiction and formal logic. At its core is a flawed assumption---that an alien race would be psychologically human.'" (p 129)There is implicit criticism of the scientific bureaucracy that rings true, but is not identified with a specific terrestrial culture. Along with this the issue of technological change is raised. One wonders what effect dramatic overnight changes in technology might have on our culture. Should we be protected from those changes? Entry to the zones is prohibited to all but a few.Red has his entire life determined by the Zone. As the book begins, he is defined by his superior knowledge of the Zone's dangers; later he acquires a wife and a daughter as a result of the affairs that he has while living the Stalker's life. Red and his fellow "stalkers" choose to ignore the prohibition risking incarceration at the least and, more importantly, the possibility of death. The denouement of this short novel leaves the reader wondering if this choice is worth the risk. This is an exciting science fiction adventure that blends cultural criticism and philosophical speculation.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    A dawning realisation is that for me, a richness of language and setting is just as important as the concepts described in order for me to enjoy a story.
    The concept of an abandoned alien visitation site with baffling advanced alien technology strewn as refuse; the community that grows around it; government and Stalkers, all drew me into the story. Yet only twice in the story did I really feel like it hit the mark for me - Firstly, the conversation with Noonan where the Roadside Picnic idea is discussed, and when Red makes his final trip in the Zone. In total this probably accounts for 20 pages of the book. The rest I found a rather bland read. Just as Red seems removed from what is around him, I felt removed from the story, content to watch it pass by than be immersed in it.
    Philosophically, there is much going on, but ultimately, for me it came wrapped in a dry and dull narrative.
    Roadside Picnic was well written and structurally solid, but ultimately unsatisfying for me.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    If you are a fan of Russian sci-fi, you will want to read this book. I had seen the movie, "Stalker," that was based on this novel, and it haunted me like Solaris. The book is much more populous and detailed, giving more insight into characters and the nature of the Zone. It varies quite a bit from the film--one of the difficulties in translating text into media--so read it as a stand-alone experience. A tip of the hat to Scribd for including this book in their library!
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Une Odyssée noire, féroce et tendre. Captivante et inoubliable. Ne laissez pas passer.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Dripping with a special kind of frantic, paranoid energy that practically makes the words themselves kinetic. I loved this a lot more than I’d expected.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The ending underwhelms. Original idea. Well written. A modern play on Heart of Darkness maybe.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This novel is a great read- gritty, gripping, philosophical and eerily poignant. Make sure to read the afterword.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Unusual novel, great characterizations, complex and believable protagonists, gritty, dark detail... story was unpredictable, delicious, absorbing.. just mesmerizing... I was sorry when it ended. Now I want to read all the authors’ other books.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I hadn't originally planned to read this but I saw the movie with some friends and one of them recommended the book. It's very sad, and I think purposefully unfulfilled. I think, like the abruptness of a bug trap, I don't think the reader is supposed to know what happens. The last words we read are like an echo, a last thought, a moment of pure rebellion. It's one of those books where the journey is best part and the point of the story, rather than the conclusion. The film that is based off the book is similar in this way that it only hints at what the Zone really is and where it came from. But that is what makes the Zone so extremely dangerous, is that the reader knows as much about it as the characters do. Rederick Schuart isn't a hero, he is a man struggling between his own curiosity about the Zone and making ends meet for his family. His isn't the kind of character that has an epic destiny, a determination to save everyone, he just wants to be free from those that run his life. So instead of being disappointed like some, I'm glad the book progresses the way it does.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    (original review, 2000)Just started re-reading this yesterday and am already gripped. It's truly unsettling in the most understated of ways. It reminds me a little of John Wyndham's work; it has a similar quality of matter-of-factness about it that somehow makes it all the more chilling.Pure literary gold...strangely put me in mind of "Stoner". You read and there is no way you can stop. Unless you need to go pee or drink a cup of coffee. Or you're really tired and go to bed. Or you've arrived at work and, seriously, you can't stand in front of class reading a random book; especially not on your smartphone. Other than that it's unputdownable.SF is a genre, comic books are a medium. There are SF comic books, and there are comic books in just about any other genre under the sun. If you're referring specifically to the Superhero genre of comic books, well it's debatable as to whether that's Science Fiction or not, but it's certainly an allied genre within the whole Speculative Fiction umbrella. Star Wars is SF, specifically the subgenre called Space Opera which is a soft SF genre, light on science, heavy on futuristic action and adventure elements.As for SF in general, I really feel I need to do more to venture outside my Anglo-American comfort zone. I've read a couple of works in translation which have been somewhat lackluster and that's put me off a bit. Having said that, I read Roadside Picnic by the Strugatsky brothers this week, and enjoyed it so much that I didn't put it down until I was finished. Also, I tend to buy books on impulse but have never found myself buying a translated book this way - there just doesn't seem to be that many, particularly for recent works. Consequently, although I could name a few old SF writers from around the world, I really have no idea who the Taiwanese equivalent of Adam Roberts is, for instance.NB: If only someone could write a book where one would feel afraid to turn the page.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    A rushed, hot-blooded, feverish, noir-soaked sci-fi tale of a humanity beaten into complete self-pity and nihilism by the realization (prompted by a disappointingly impersonal alien visit) that they just don't add up to much. It's fast-moving stuff, smart and sharp, and even though there is nearly no "beauty" in the whole book, it's at least an unforgettable story and an interesting philosophical perspective.

    1 person found this helpful

Book preview

Roadside Picnic - Arkady Strugatsky

1

REDRICK SCHUHART, 23 YEARS OLD, SINGLE, LABORATORY ASSISTANT IN THE HARMONT BRANCH OF THE INTERNATIONAL INSTITUTE OF EXTRATERRESTRIAL CULTURES.

The other day, we’re standing in the repository; it’s evening already, nothing left to do but dump the lab suits, then I can head down to the Borscht for my daily dose of booze. I’m relaxing, leaning on the wall, my work all done and a cigarette at the ready, dying for a smoke—I haven’t smoked for two hours—while he keeps fiddling with his treasures. One safe is loaded, locked, and sealed shut, and he’s loading yet another one—taking the empties from our transporter, inspecting each one from every angle (and they are heavy bastards, by the way, fourteen pounds each), and, grunting slightly, carefully depositing them on the shelf.

He’s been struggling with these empties for ages, and all, in my opinion, with no benefit to humanity or himself. In his place, I would have bailed a long time ago and gotten another job with the same pay. Although on the other hand, if you think about it, an empty really is a puzzling and even a mysterious thing. I’ve handled them lots of times myself, but every time I see one—I can’t help it, I’m still amazed. It’s just these two copper disks the size of a saucer, a quarter inch thick, about eighteen inches apart, and not a thing between the two. I mean, nothing whatsoever, zip, nada, zilch. You can stick your hand between them—maybe even your head, if the thing has unhinged you enough—nothing but empty space, thin air. And despite this, there must be something there, a force field of some sort, because so far no one’s managed to push these disks together, or pull them apart either.

No, friends, it’s hard to describe this thing if you haven’t seen one. It looks much too simple, especially when you finally convince yourself that your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you. It’s like describing a glass to someone or, God forbid, a wineglass: you just wiggle your fingers in the air and curse in utter frustration. All right, we’ll assume that you got it, and if you didn’t, pick up a copy of the Institute’s Reports—they have articles about these empties in every issue, complete with pictures.

Anyway, Kirill’s been struggling with these empties for almost a year now. I’ve worked for him from the very beginning, but I still don’t get what he wants with them, and to be honest, I haven’t tried too hard to find out. Let him first figure it out for himself, sort it all out, then maybe I’ll have a listen. But so far, one thing is clear to me: he’s absolutely determined to dismantle an empty, dissolve it in acid, crush it under a press, or melt it in an oven. And then he’ll finally get it, he’ll be covered in glory, and the entire scientific world will simply shudder in pleasure. But for now, as far as I know, he’s nowhere near this goal. He hasn’t yet accomplished anything at all, except that he’s exhausted himself, turned gray and quiet, and his eyes have become like a sick dog’s—they even water. If it were someone else, I’d get him totally wasted, take him to a great girl to loosen him up a bit, then the next morning I’d feed him more booze, take him to more girls, and by the end of the week he’d be A-OK—good as new and ready to go. Except this sort of therapy wouldn’t work on Kirill. There’s no point in even suggesting it; he’s not the type.

So, as I said, we’re standing in the repository, I’m looking at him, the way he’s gotten, how his eyes have sunk in, and I feel sorrier for him than I can say. And then I decide. Except I don’t really decide—it’s like the words tumble out themselves.

Listen, I say, Kirill . . .

He’s standing there, holding up the last empty, and looking like he wants to crawl right inside it.

Listen, I say, Kirill. What if you had a full empty, huh?

A full empty? he repeats, knitting his brows like I’m speaking Greek.

Yeah, I say. It’s your hydromagnetic trap, what’s it called? Object seventy-seven B. Only with some shit inside, blue stuff.

I can tell—I’m starting to get through. He looks up at me, squints, and there in his eyes, behind the dog tears, appears a glimmer of intelligence, as he himself loves to put it. Wait, wait, he says. A full one? The same thing, except full?

Yes, exactly.

Where?

My Kirill’s cured. Good as new and ready to go. Let’s go have a smoke, I say.

He promptly stuffs the empty into the safe, slams the door, gives the lock three and a half turns, and comes back with me to the lab. For an empty empty, Ernest would give four hundred bucks in cash, and I could bleed the bastard dry for a full one; but believe it or not, that doesn’t even cross my mind, because in my hands Kirill has come to life again—he’s buzzing with energy, almost bursting into song, bounding down the stairs four at a time, not letting a guy light his cigarette. Anyway, I tell him everything: what it looks like and where it is and how to best get at it. He immediately takes out a map, finds this garage, puts his finger on it, gives me a long look, and, of course, immediately figures me out, but then that isn’t so hard . . .

You devil, Red! he says, smiling at me. Well, let’s get this over with. We’ll go first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll request a hoverboot and a pass at nine, and by ten we’ll be off. All right?

All right, I say. And who else will we take?

What do we need another guy for?

No way, I say. This is no picnic. What if something happens to you? It’s the Zone. Gotta follow the rules.

He gives a short laugh and shrugs. Up to you. You know better.

No shit! Of course, that was him being generous: Who needs another guy, we’ll go by ourselves, we’ll keep the whole thing dark, and no one will suspect a thing. Except I know that the guys from the Institute don’t go into the Zone in pairs. They have an unwritten rule around here: two guys do all the work while the third one watches, and when they ask later, he vouches there was no funny business.

If it were up to me, I’d take Austin, Kirill says. But you probably don’t want him. Or would he do?

No, I say. Anyone but him. You’ll take Austin another time. Austin isn’t a bad guy, he’s got the right mix of courage and cowardice, but I think he’s already doomed. You can’t explain this to Kirill, but I know these things: the man has decided he’s got the Zone completely figured out, and so he’ll soon screw up and kick the bucket. And he can go right ahead. But not with me around.

All right, all right, says Kirill. How about Tender? Tender is his second lab assistant. He isn’t a bad guy, a calm sort.

He’s a bit old, I say. And he has kids . . .

That’s OK. He’s been in the Zone already.

Fine, I say. Let it be Tender.

Anyway, he stays there poring over the map while I race straight to the Borscht, because my stomach is growling and my throat is parched.

The next day I get to work at nine, as usual, and show my ID. The guard on duty is the beefy sergeant I pummeled last year when he made a drunken pass at Guta. Hey, he says. They’re looking all over the Institute for you, Red—

I interrupt him politely. I’m not ‘Red’ to you, I say. Don’t you try to pal around with me, you Swedish ape.

For God’s sake, Red! he says in astonishment. But they all call you that!

I’m anxious about going into the Zone and cold sober to boot. I grab him by the shoulder belt and tell him exactly what he is and just how his mother conceived him. He spits on the floor, returns my ID, and continues without any more pleasantries.

Redrick Schuhart, he says, you are ordered to immediately report to the chief of security, Captain Herzog.

There you go, I say. Much better. Keep plugging away, Sergeant—you’ll make lieutenant yet.

Meantime, I’m shitting my pants. What could Captain Herzog want from me during work hours? Well, off I go to report. He has an office on the third floor, a very nice office, complete with bars on the windows like a police station. Willy himself is sitting behind his desk, puffing on his pipe and typing some gibberish on his typewriter. Over in the corner, some sergeant is rummaging through a metal cabinet—must be a new guy; I’ve never met him. We have more of these sergeants at the Institute than they have at division headquarters, all of them hale, hearty, and rosy cheeked. They don’t need to go into the Zone and don’t give a damn about world affairs.

Hello, I say. You requested my presence?

Willy looks at me like I’m not there, pushes away his typewriter, puts an enormous file in front of him, and starts flipping through it. Redrick Schuhart? he says.

That’s my name, I answer, feeling an urge to burst into nervous laughter.

How long have you worked at the Institute?

Two years, going on the third.

Your family?

I’m all alone, I say. An orphan.

Then he turns to the sergeant and orders him sternly, Sergeant Lummer, go to the archives and bring back case 150. The sergeant salutes him and beats it. Willy slams the file shut and asks me gloomily, Starting up your old tricks again, are you?

What old tricks?

You know damn well what old tricks. We’ve received information on you again.

Aha, I think. And who was the source?

He scowls and bangs his pipe on the ashtray in annoyance. That’s none of your business, he says. I’m warning you as an old friend: give up this nonsense, give it up for good. If they catch you a second time, you won’t walk away with six months. And they’ll kick you out of the Institute once and for all, understand?

I understand, I say. That much I understand. What I don’t understand is what son of a bitch squealed on me . . .

But he’s staring through me again, puffing on his empty pipe, and flipping merrily through his file. That, then, signals the return of Sergeant Lummer with case 150. Thank you, Schuhart, says Captain Willy Herzog, nicknamed the Hog. That’s all that I needed to know. You are free to go.

Well, I go to the locker room, change into my lab suit, and light up, the entire time trying to figure out: where are they getting the dirt? If it’s from the Institute, then it’s all lies, no one here knows a damn thing about me and never could. And if it’s from the police . . . again, what could they know about except my old sins? Maybe the Vulture got nabbed; that bastard, to save his sorry ass, would rat on his own mother. But even the Vulture doesn’t have a thing on me nowadays. I think and think, can’t think of a thing, and decide not to give a damn. The last time I went into the Zone at night was three months ago; the swag is mostly gone, and the money is mostly spent. They didn’t catch me then, and like hell they’ll catch me now. I’m slippery.

But then, as I’m heading upstairs, it hits me, and I’m so stunned that I go back down to the locker room, sit down, and light up again. It turns out I can’t go into the Zone today. And tomorrow I can’t, and the day after tomorrow. It turns out the cops again have me on their radar, they haven’t forgotten about me, and even if they have, someone has very kindly reminded them. And it doesn’t even matter now who it was. No stalker, unless he’s completely nuts, will go anywhere near the Zone when he knows he’s being watched. Right now, I ought to be burrowing into some deep dark corner. Zone? What Zone? I haven’t set foot there in months, I don’t even go there using my pass! What are you harassing an honest lab assistant for?

I think all this through and even feel a bit of relief that I don’t need to go into the Zone today. Except how am I going to break it to Kirill?

I tell him straight out. I’m not going into the Zone. Your orders?

At first, of course, he just gawks at me. Eventually, something seems to click. He takes me by the elbow, leads me to his office, sits me down at his table, and perches on the windowsill nearby. We light up. Silence. Then he asks me cautiously, Red, did something happen?

Now what am I supposed to tell him? No, I say, nothing happened. Well, I blew twenty bucks last night playing poker—that Noonan sure knows how to play, the bastard.

Hold on, he says. What, you mean you just changed your mind?

I almost groan from the tension. I can’t, I say through my teeth. I can’t, you get it? Herzog just called me to his office.

He goes limp. Again misery is stamped on his face, and again his eyes look like a sick poodle’s. He takes a ragged breath, lights a new cigarette with the remains of the old one, and says quietly, Believe me, Red, I didn’t breathe a word to anyone.

Stop it, I say. Who’s talking about you?

I haven’t even told Tender yet. I got a pass for him, but I haven’t even asked him whether he’d come or not . . .

I keep smoking in silence. Ye gods, the man just doesn’t understand.

What did Herzog say to you, anyway?

Oh, not much, I say. Someone squealed on me, that’s all.

He gives me a funny look, hops off the windowsill, and starts walking back and forth. He’s pacing around his office while I sit there, blowing smoke rings and keeping my trap shut. I feel sorry for him, of course, and really this is rotten luck: a great cure I found for the guy’s depression. And who’s to blame here? I am, that’s who. I tempted a child with candy, except the candy’s in a jar, out of reach on the top shelf . . . He stops pacing, comes up to me, and, looking somewhere off to the side, asks awkwardly, Listen, Red, how much would it cost—a full empty?

I don’t get it at first, thinking he wants to buy one somewhere else, except good luck finding another one—it might be the only one in the world, and besides, he wouldn’t have enough money. Where would a Russian scientist get that much cash? Then I feel like I’ve been slapped: does the bastard think I’m pulling this stunt for the dough? For God’s sake, I think, asshole, what do you take me for? I even open my mouth, ready to shower him with curses. And I stop. Because, actually, what else could he take me for? A stalker’s a stalker, the money is all that matters to him, he gambles his life for the money. So it follows that yesterday I threw out the line, and today I’m working the bait, jacking up the price.

These thoughts shock me speechless. Meanwhile, he keeps staring at me intently, and in his eyes I don’t see contempt—only a kind of compassion. And so I explain it to him calmly. No one has ever gone to the garage with a pass, I say. They haven’t even laid the route to it yet, you know that. So here we are coming back, and your Tender starts bragging how we made straight for the garage, took what we needed, and returned immediately. As if we went to the warehouse. And it will be perfectly obvious, I say, that we knew what we were coming for. That means that someone was guiding us. And which one of us three it was—that’s a real tough one. You understand how this looks for me?

I finish my little speech, and we silently look each other in the eye. Then he suddenly claps his hands, rubs them together, and cheerfully announces, Well, of course, no means no. I understand you, Red, so I can’t judge you. I’ll go myself. I’ll manage, with luck. Not my first time.

He spreads the map on the windowsill, leans on his hands, hunches over it, and all his good cheer evaporates before my eyes. I hear him mumble, Three hundred and ninety feet . . . or even four hundred . . . and a bit more in the garage. No, I won’t take Tender. What do you think, Red, maybe I shouldn’t take Tender? He has two kids, after all . . .

They won’t let you out on your own, I say.

Don’t worry, they will, he says, still mumbling. I know all the sergeants . . . and all the lieutenants. I don’t like those trucks! Thirteen years they’ve stood in the open air, and they still look brand-new . . . Twenty steps away, the gasoline tanker is rusted through, but they look fresh from the assembly line. Oh, that Zone!

He lifts his gaze from the map and stares out the window. And I stare out the window, too. There, beyond the thick leaded glass, is our Zone—right there, almost within reach, tiny and toylike from the thirteenth floor . . .

If you take a quick look at it, everything seems OK. The sun shines there just like it’s supposed to, and it seems as if nothing’s changed, as if everything’s the same as thirteen years ago. My old man, rest his soul, could take a look and see nothing out of place, might only wonder why there isn’t smoke coming from the factories—Is there a strike on? Yellow ore in conical mounds, blast furnaces gleaming in the sun, rails, rails, and more rails, on the rails a locomotive . . . In short, the typical industrial landscape. Except there’s no one around: no one living, no one dead. Ah, and there’s the garage: a long gray tube, the gates wide open, and trucks standing next to it on the lot. Thirteen years they’ve stood, and nothing’s happened to them. Kirill got that right—he has a good head on his shoulders. God help you if you ever pass between those vehicles, you must always go around . . . There’s a useful crack in the pavement there, if it hasn’t filled with brambles. Four hundred feet—where’s he measuring that from? Oh! Must be from the last marker. Right, can’t be more than that from there. These eggheads are making progress after all . . . Look, they’ve laid a route all the way to the dump, and a clever route at that! There it is, the ditch where the Slug kicked the bucket, all of six feet away from their route. And Knuckles kept telling the Slug, You idiot, stay away from those ditches or there will be nothing left to bury! A real prophecy that was—nothing left to bury indeed. That’s the Zone for you: come

Enjoying the preview?
Page 1 of 1