He looked at me through the glass, muttered something indistinct and without a further word poured me four fingers of vodka. I climbed up on a stool, took a sip, made a face, shook my head, and had another sip. The refrigerator was humming, the jukebox was playing something soft and low, Ernest was laboring over another glass. It was peaceful. I finished my drink and put the glass back down on the bar. Ernest immediately poured me another four fingers.

"A little better?” he muttered. “Coming round, stalker?"

"Stick to your wiping, why don't you. You know, one guy rubbed until he got a genie. Ended up on easy street."

"Who was that?” Ernest asked suspiciously.

"It was another bartender here. Before your time."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Why do you think the Visitation happened. It was all his rubbing. Who do you think the Visitors were?"

"You're a bum,” Ernie said with approval.

He went to the kitchen and came back with a plate of grilled hot dogs. He put the plate in front of me, moved the catsup over toward me, and went back to his glasses. Ernest knows his stuff. His trained eye recognizes a stalker returned from the Zone with swag and he knows what a stalker needs after a visit to the Zone. Good old Ernie. A humanitarian.

I finished the hot dogs, lit a cigarette, and started calculating how much Ernie must make on us. I'm not sure of the prices the loot goes for in Europe, but I'd heard that an empty can get almost 2,500, and Ernie only gives us 400. Batteries there cost at least 100 and we're lucky if we can get 20 from him. Of course, shipping the loot to Europe must cost plenty. Grease this palm and that one … and the stationmaster must be on his payroll too. When you think about it, Ernest really doesn't make that much, maybe fifteen or twenty percent, no more. And if he gets caught, it's ten years at hard labor.

Here my honorable meditations were interrupted by some polite type. I hadn't even heard him walk in. He announced himself next to my elbow, asking permission to sit down.