By the way, in the Pre-Zone area they already began to call the earth beyond the perimeter of the quarantine zone – Earth with a capital letter. “So what did Gorbachev say on Earth?” “Damn, did you hear that Americans are coming from Earth to search for their people… Wish they brought their rations again…”

Vadim was invited to the table. They squatted, facing each other. Vadim always felt uncomfortable sitting this way, both at home in Spartanovka, and at home in Uralmash. The body was protesting, was not accepting the pose. Vadim was stretching out one leg, getting from Bashkalo's hands a Chinese thermos with a little flower, sipping almost warm tea, passing the thermos over the campfire to Petrovich, changing his legs, munching the stew from the can, rising on the left knee, then on the right, so that Bashkalo suddenly grumbled with his throat that he was tired of his, a goose, fidgeting.

Petrovich said nothing, he was squeezing the aluminum thermos lid with his square fingers, silently ate, silently drank, thinking some sort of thought, and Bashkalo quickly fell silent. However, the expectation of a scolding clearly gathered over the fire, and no one was surprised about Petrovich's resulting words after his, Petrovich, coming out of his spell of contemplation.

– You're such a moron, Vasya Bashkalo, – he said heavily. – It would have been better to trust the cart to the cub, and assign you to go as a bumper, behind the group. So what shall we do now, a j-ass band Vasya? Shall we go three poles further from the last one, and sit there on the spot for nothing, wait for tomorrow's vehicle to go back from this side to that one? Such a successful mission you've ditched, Vasya. We were going so well.

Bashkalo twirled his mustache, blushed again, but, of course, not so terribly this time. He slurped from the thermos till coughing. He coughed, letting brown saliva drip between his knees from under his mustache. Shame in people of this kind is usually expressed through passing the buck. That's why Bashkalo gave the thermos not to Vadim, who was the next in the turn, but pointedly returned it to Petrovich.

– Here, Nikolaich, have a drink. And forgive me. This one, – he nodded at Vadim, – hindered us there, at the rails, I nearly knocked him down, twitched, and here, apparently, lost the handle. It's always like this with geese. Sure you know. I'm guilty, of course.

After listening to this Petrovich grinned and began to press an aluminum pancake (the former thermos lid) with his thumb edgeways into the ground near to his foot. Bashkalo was waiting with the outstretched “Chinese”. Petrovich took the thermos and immediately gave it to Vadim.

– Drink it up, cub. And do not hesitate in front of your comrade Ensign on the rails again.

– Can I have your permission to ask a question, comrade Senior Ensign. How did you know about the second railcar? – asked Vadim. As if nothing had happened.

Petrovich, who immersed in forecasting and planning again, first answered mechanically:

– Accidentally, like everything here, by intuition… Didn't understand, what?

The tea in the thermos was running low and the leaves from the bottom climbed to Vadim's mouth.

– No stupid questions in the Zone, warrior! A tourist, damned adulterer! No chattering! – boomed Petrovich, looming over.

Vadim handed him the thermos with the remaining couple of sips and a handful of wet tea leaves, and suddenly Petrovich growled really angrily:

– So you, bitch, dirtbag, weren't at the briefing?

– My fault, comrade Senior Ensign, said Vadim, managing to replace the natural “I don't understand” with “My fault”.

Petrovich pushed the thermos in the ground, unbuckled the gear, pulled out the collar of the hazmat suit and snatched a roll of a blue electrical tape from behind the back.

– You, motherfucker, have a golden ring on your finger! – He said hastily and furiously. – Take it off now! Take it off quickly, you idiot! Is it rooted or what?

– No… – said Vadim, stunned.

– Yes, take off the decoration, turd! – joined Bashkalo, although somewhat lazily. – But where were you, Nikolaich, the old wolf, looking? Here they are, the geese. I'm telling you! And good people die because of them. And poles get lost.

Bashkalo was smiling shiningly, like a toilet in a shop window. The teeth behind his mustache were rare and white as sugar. He was older then Vadim by five or seven years. Vadim could answer him properly, but again he restrained himself and took off the ring. Petrovich feverishly snatched it with a nail, not instantly, hastily picked up the edge of the tape, pulled out a strip, close to an arm's length, crushed it into a ball, put the ring in its middle and began to wrap layer by layer, moving his lips (“Petrovich prays with a guard duty regulations! Ha-ha-ha!”), no longer pulling PVC tape from the roll. He had used up a half. Finally he tore it off. Having formed a ball he weighed it by a hand. And crossed himself twice. Vadim and Bashkalo opened their mouths. Senior Ensign Petrovich, making the sign of the cross is the mosaic of Lomonosov¹²1.

– Here, cub, hide this deeper!

Vadim shoved the tangle with the ring in its stomach (“Happy cake!”, Mumbler squeaked from behind his nose bridge) into the hip pocket. So this is how it is with gold in the Zone.

– Remember, youngster: gold is like a lightning rod in the Zone. Gold catches lightning. And do you know what kind of lightning you get here? Then, if you return, ask your scientists. Who is still alive. Any chains, crosses?

And Petrovich finished the tea in one gulp.

Vadim shook his head.

– No sir.

Bashkalo laughed.

– You should listen to the instructions with your ears, but not with… family guy. – Petrovich said with his usual loudness. – The same was with the poles: it was made from the rod at first, before they got washed with the blood… So what brought you here, damn you, married one?

Vadim was silent. Two (just two!) months ago no one in the world could convince him to return here. Neither for money, nor for the Motherland. He was a happy TV viewer just two months ago, he crawled on his knees to the TV to show Maika that here is the burning bread factory, we used to get bread there, and Americans disappeared right here, exactly here I served… He was a happy viewer. The Range (“Captain Zhitkur!”, interrupted Mumbler) gave him money, fate (“Madness of your dad!”, interrupted Mumbler) gave him Maika, Maika gave him Katty, and Vadim would agree to watch the horrors of Kapustin only on TV. Alex the Ukrainian was choking with tears when in the summer of eighty sixth he read to them letters from Kiev, about radiation, about illicit radiometers, about cops in cellophane. But Vadim would never shed a tear because of the disaster at the Range. He hated and feared it. And now it was the only hope. That which he hated and feared.

It turned out that all this time Petrovich was waiting for an answer.

– Are you silent? Silent-pliant, snotty. Okay. So. This is what we will do in connection with the feat of the comrade Ensign… – He chewed his lips. – So, group, listen to my command. Our mission of reconnaissance, marking a safe track to the “area twenty nine” and inspection of the condition of nuclear weapons as far as is visually possible for such a survey we cannot accomplish anymore. We can't get out without the poles, and will not leave anything for others. Thank you, Vasya, again. We change the route. Take the fallback route. We’ll smoke and go.

Petrovich pulled out the rarity of that summer – a fresh pack of “Rodopi”, opened it and lit up. He neatly rolled the wrapper into a ball (“Puff the ball”, squeaked Mumbler) and shoved it into the fire. The splinters were already burned and cooling, only the tablets glowed blue. Bashkalo breathed noisily and asked for a cigarette with a gesture.

– Where are we changing to? What is the fallback route, Nikolaich?

– Not far, comrade Ensign, – said Petrovich, passing him the cigarette to light up his. – It is a dive for three our poles from here. We didn't manage to do reconnaissance for command… Thanks to you. So let's do science, since the tracks have coincided. Don't soil your pants, Vasya, it's not far. Not far and familiar. My stash is nearby. I want to share it with you. And with this one, the newbie.

– That's it… – said Bashkalo, inhaling. – Share the stash! Pi-iss, not war…

They smoked in front of each other, flicking the ashes in turn into the already totally spirit fluid campfire. It was heavy, sucking, hopelessly-dueling, and Vadim shrugged off the chatter ban again.

– Comrade Senior Ensign… Allow me one more question. To do with work. So all these… weird places… Gitiks. They are all near our equipment, to the railway, as they seem to generate only from equipment, right?

Petrovich laughed.

– He's playing Indians here. Oh, kids, kids… It was true, warrior! And binoculars could be used at first, and sights. But now you will not take a walk along the free-flowing steppe… So you, Sverzhin, of this… thinking kind. For one thousand five hundred per month. How did you say – “gitiks”?

Vadim nodded.

– The “Jackets” in the smoking room were arguing. They call this an incredible place. A gitik. “Science knows many gitiks.”¹³1 There is such an expression.

– Now that's what we call the Red Army. – Petrovich said didactically. – All the personnel of the test site, who are alive and not in the nuthouse, sit and read damned science fiction instead of the Charter! Led by comrade General, the chief of the quarantine. And you are still running to the scientists. You are strange, Sverzhin. But you have flair. And the balance is good… And you shoot, they say… Leather stocking…

– Actually I don't read at all, – said Vadim, but nobody heard him.

– Yeah, he is… a Fenimore. Damn! – Bashkalo cut in.

– Here is your Fenimore… It's a strange thing about your conscription contract, – said Petrovich. – I heard that enlistment offices recruit eighty-six to eighty-nine of the demobilized from here by their polls, and immediately offer one thousand and a half per month. Am I right, Sverzgin? Just asking.

– They also take a non-disclosure agreement, – said Vadim. – A fifteen-year sentence.

– Look where they brought the country… – said Bashkalo unexpectedly, but right in the vein, straight down the line.

– Well, if it's a fifteen-year sentence so then stop the chattering, – said Petrovich. – Have you finished a cigarette, Vasya? And you, have you finished your lunch? Get up now. Sverzhin, take the thermos and fill it with soil. Compress it with your fingers, it should be packed! And put a cork above. And carefully throw it away, but better roll it. And you, comrade Ensign Vasya, my dear man, – you are still responsible for the poles. All three and a half. Ok, you convinced me, I'll carry the broken one. But don't you drop the rest, I dare you in the name of the proletariat. Grab and cradle them. Gently. There will be something that needs a fence.

“A cylindrical hollow of metal or glass, open from one or more sides, tools and everyday items of any length and more than five centimeters in diameter acquire dangerous properties with a 100% probability”, parodying the secret instructor in a fencing mask, Mumbler howled. Vadim even rubbed his nose bridge, “like the following: empty cans and bottles, mugs, shell and anti-aircraft cartridges, and other similar technological objects …”

Vadim was shoving clay into the thermos, and the voice of Petrovich was barely making its way through the mumbling of the little man in his brain. Vadim could not calm Mumbler, before the thermos became “full to the eyeballs”. Fortunately, Petrovich decided to repeat everything, after he waited for the place of a halt to be brought into a safe state.

– Attention, group! Listen to the combat mission. Here we see, – Petrovich indicated the “three hundred and twenty-fourth“, – there is an offshoot from the track. Unknown to authorities. We go this direction. – A wave of the cane-staff. – About four hundred meters according to the land map, and in fact a kilometer and a half. Under the embankment again. The place is weird. – He scratched under the strap on his chin. – “A gitik”, you said, Sverzhin? Let it be “a gitik”. I'll show you the real gitik. Big and complicated. If we come back – do not talk about what you saw. Bashkalo, first of all I'm talking to you. You'll get exactly fifteen years.

– Listen, Nikolaich, you… not so fast, you slow down… – began Bashkalo nervously.

– Shut your mouth, Vasya, damn your leaky hands, I'm talking to you in the presence of the cub. We change the order of movement. Sverzhin, you go close, completely on the “risks”¹⁴1. I'll be “risking”, and you handing them over to me. Now we go further. This track will be a place where you cannot talk, make noise, stomp out, or pray. No sound! You can only look at me and repeat all my actions. Bashkalo, you are ten meters behind all the time. Is the task clear?

Vadim nodded. Mumbler was attentively silent.

– That's right, it is clear to me, – said Bashkalo, hard at work. – But you should explain at least, Nikolaich…

– We'll get there – you'll see everything yourself. If you don't understand – I will explain to you at home. No questions in the Zone. Or you forgot? It seems that you're not a first timer, Vasya, – said Petrovich, expressing amazement in the last phrase.

– So is there something extremely dangerous? I didn't get. We've been ordered to survive…

Petrovich lost his patience.

– Ensign Bashkalo, stop chattering! The task is set, is clear. Perform the task. It's extremely dangerous everywhere here. And for the Soviet people, you, Vasya, must work your fifteen hundred per month through two hundred for each mission. We seem to have an ideological cub here, I live by the rules, and you have come to talk too much about money lately. Enough, no questions. Right dress, attention. Forward, contract boy. The order of movement is statutory before my command. On the march!

Vadim took one step and tumbled down into a river.

It was good in the river. And the world through which it was flowing was good. Warm, safe, and forever homely. Newcomers have been warned about hallucinations repeatedly. They were advised to recall what happened in them and, if possible, to count a seconds of objective time. One, Mississippi, two, Mississippi, three, Mississippi… And then, without fail, describe the memories in the report. A slow, narrow river in the jungle. The heavy river, the powerful river, flows from afar, for a long time. The Amazon? What the jungle is this? “How do I know”, said Mumbler, “am I a jungle specialist to you, or what?” The river flows majestically, like semolina porridge. There is a feeling of peace and security, peace in the whole world. And crocodiles and piranhas? There are none here. The water is very clean and tasty. Upstream, a half of kilometer away from Vadim, the river made a turn (he perceived it as “the river flowed out of the bend”), and out of this bend some boards with life buoys on the walls, fishing rods and open doors suddenly appeared, all sparkling in the sun, white, like in Chekhov's poem, suburban, theatrical.

“That's right”, said Mumbler, “a houseboat. A square like a box, a house on a raft, with a veranda, wicker chairs, curtains in the doorway… Who is sitting on the veranda? Two people? Or one is sitting down, while the second at the railing, spits into the water?”

It was unclear from the scene.

Two hundred eighty-five Mississippi, two hundred eighty-six Mississippi… Vadim was counting diligently.

– Sverzhin, stop!

Vadim was thrown back. He stopped and slammed himself hard over the eyes, trying to wipe them.

– “Stop” was a command! – repeated Petrovich after all this. – Pay more attention on the track. – Vadim heard his footsteps, and here Petrovich approached and stood next to him on the right. And only then the vision seemed to be cleared from the river of semolina porridge, and Vadim realised that he had almost stuck into the famous fog of the Zone. The atmospheric condensation.

“And I saw it a long time ago, about fifteen seconds”, said Mumbler, “But you force me to count there, to watch here, friends don't act this way with a friend!”

“Oh, shut up!” – Vadim almost said it aloud.

– Hey you, bumper, how you called…, Sverzhin, you need to be more attentive, – Petrovich said quietly and unexpectedly mildly. – Do you see the old “risk”, it is lying right there? I'm throwing a new one next to it.

A small nut, flying for a dozen meters, with a gauze strip, not very long, tied to it, crossed through the air and entered the fog. The fog blinked, at once, totally disappearing for a moment.

– Did you get it, Fenimore?

Vadim completely returned from the river. The taste of water disappeared from the tongue, sharp TV flashes melted in his eyes. An automatic desire to jump on one foot, shaking the water out of the ear, lingered for one more second (By the way, yes, he got water in his ear). His short-term memory kicked in, and Vadim said, focusing on reality:

– Yes. I see. D-damn! What a mess. There is no fog in reality, is there?

– Yes. That’s the thing. Exactly this one does not actually exist. Something happens with the eyes here. These kinds of places lie in wait. Gitiks, damn them. Doctors say it's like a mental leap. We see in some other way, or sometimes do not see at all. But the Trouble forces a special human gut feeling to show itself, if you're lucky. If there is one – even you, young one, immediately distinguish the real fog from… well, from this, from what's in the mind. But it can also happen like now – no fog at all, neither in the brain, nor in reality, but the visibility is still only a few steps. And no hunch will help. Here, take a step backward.

Vadim carefully obeyed. The fog vanished.

– There is no fog, but there are “risks”, right?

– Yes.

– Don't even step back, just lean back with your body.

The “risks” disappeared.

– Understood? Neither exists. Hocus-pocus. But they are there, I see them from here. This is called “to blink the fog away“. Here is what a creation of unknown kind it is, our Mother-Trouble… Hunch is a hunch, but attention and caution are the main thing. Like in a minefield. Listen, Sverzhin, – Petrovich said suddenly, – so you are married; why did you come here, you fool? Have you got kids? Come here.