"George Alec Effinger - City On Sand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Effinger George Alec)

years too late for that. It is too boring. I have no interest
even in seeing if I'm correct.”
Ernst smiled, realizing that he was deliberately avoiding
any real observation. It was nonsense, of course, to think
that twelve physical types might be enough to catalogue the
shabby mass of people that filled the city. He had exhausted
that particular entertainment, and rather quickly; what
remained was the more tiresome prospect of actually
describing the crowd. Perhaps M. Gargotier would arrive soon,
interrupting the intellectual effort, scattering the energy,
mercifully introducing a tiny but vital novelty.
“An interesting point,” Ernst said aloud, imagining himself
a lecturer before dozing students in some stifling European
hall, “a genuine philosophical point that we can all grasp and
taste for truth, is that there is nothing in the world quite like
the opportunity of seeing someone make an ass of himself.
Free entertainment is, after all, the Great Leveler, not death,
as we have often been told. In the case of death, the rich are
often able to regulate its moment of victory, staving off the
final instant for months, even years, with purchased miracles
of medicine. The poor take what they are given. But free
entertainment is democratic! No one may say when a
13
 The City on the Sand
by George Alec Effinger


spectacle may arise, may explode, may stumble. And then,
when that moment comes, every man, rich or poor, must
take advantage as best he can, elbowing aside the crowds all
together at the same time. So, by sitting here, I have
conquered them all, diversion and audience alike. And I can
delude myself with my own analogies, considering death a
lesser antagonist, and applaud my own immortality.”
In a while, Ernst heard a ragged ruffle of drums, and a
high-pitched voice shouting orders. Only the Jaish, thought
Ernst with disappointment. It was only the new Citizens’
Army; there would be little chance here to advance his
position. He did not care for the local folk and their sudden
and silly politics, and his own sort of people would not be long
entertained by the fools’ parade. He called M. Gargotier in a
loud, rude voice. “Bring me some of that ugly Arab drink,” he
said. “It's noon, isn't it?” There was not a word from the
proprietor, not a smile or a nod.
The people on the sidewalk, however, were having a
wonderful time. Ernst could hear the rattling of the snare
drums playing a syncopated, unmilitary cadence. The several
drummers had evidently not had much practice together; the
strokes rarely fell in unison, and with a little attention one
could identify the different styles of each man. The slapping