Roadside Picnic by Boris Strugatsky, Arkady Strugatsky

your husband,” Redrick said, his mouth full again. “Too squeamish?”
    “Some husband you are now. You’re just an empty bag, not a husband. You have to be stuffed first.”
    “What if I could?” Redrick asked. “Miracles do happen, you know.”
    “I haven’t seen miracles like that from you before. How about a drink?”
    Redrick played with his fork indecisively.
    “N-no, thanks.” He looked at his watch and got up. “I’m off now. Get my dress-up outfit ready. First class. A shirt and tie.”
    Enjoying the sensation of the cool floor under his clean bare feet, he went into the storeroom and barred the door. He put on a rubber apron and rubber gloves up to his elbows and started unloading the swag on the table. Two empties. A box of pins. Nine batteries. Three bracelets. Some kind of hoop, sort of like the bracelets, but of white metal, lighter, and bigger in diameter by an inch. Sixteen black sprays in a polyethylene case. Two marvelously preserved sponges the size of a fist. Three itchers. A jar of carbonated clay. There was still a heavy porcelain container carefully wrapped in fiberglass in the bag, but Redrick didn’t touch it. He smoked and examined the wealth spread out on the table.
    Then he opened a drawer and took out a piece of paper, a pencil stump, and a calculator. He kept the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and squinting in the smoke, he wrote number after number, making three columns in all. He added up the first two. The numbers were impressive. He put out the butt in an ashtray and carefully opened the box and spilled out the pins on the paper. In the electric light the pins looked slightly blue and occasionally sputtered with other colors – yellow, red, and green. He picked up a pin and carefully squeezed it between his thumb and index finger, avoiding being pricked. Then he put out the light and waited a bit, getting accustomed to the dark. But the pin was silent. He put it aside and found another one, which he also squeezed. Nothing. He squeezed harder, risking a pinprick, and the pin spoke: weak red flashes ran along the pin and were suddenly replaced by slower green pulses. Redrick enjoyed this strange light play for a few seconds. He had learned from the
Reports
that the lights were supposed to mean something, maybe something very important. He put the pin in a different spot from the first and picked up another.
    He ended up with seventy-three pins, twelve of which spoke. The rest were silent. Actually they too could speak, but fingers were not enough to get them started. You needed a special machine the size of the table. Redrick put on the light and added two more numbers to his list. And only then did he decide to do it.
    He stuck both hands into the bag and holding his breath brought out a soft package and placed it on the table. He stared at it for a while, thoughtfully rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. Then he picked up the pencil, played with it with his clumsy rubbery fingers, and put it aside. He took another cigarette and smoked the entire thing without taking his eyes off the package.
    “What the hell!” he said out loud and decisively stuffed the package back into the bag. “That’s it. Enough.”
    He quickly gathered all the pins into the box and got up. It was time to go. He probably could get a half hour’s sleep to clear his head, but on the other hand, it was probably a much better idea to get there early and check out the situation. He took off the gloves, hung up the apron, and left the storeroom without turning out the light.
    His suit was ready and laid out on the bed. Redrick got dressed. He was doing his tie in front of the mirror when the floor creaked behind him, and he heard heavy breathing, and he made a face to keep from laughing.
    “Ha!” a tiny voice shouted next to him and someone grabbed his leg.
    “Oh-oh!” Redrick exclaimed, falling back onto the bed.
    Monkey, laughing and squealing, immediately clambered up on him. She