"Alan Dean Foster - Impossible Places" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

Carlos loved South America. One could sample all the delights a country had to offer and move on,
working one’s way around the continent at leisure, always keeping a comfortable step ahead of the local
police. So long as depredations were kept modest, the attentions of Interpol could be avoided. They
were the only ones who concerned Carlos. The local cops he treated with disdain, knowing he could
always cross the next border if he was unlucky enough to draw their attention. This happened but rarely,
as he was careful enough to keep his illegalities modest. Carlos firmly believed that the world only owed
him a living, not a fortune.
As for the people he hurt: the shopkeepers he stole from and the women and girls whose emotions he
toyed with, well, sheep existed to be fleeced. He saw himself as an instructor, touring the continent,
imparting valuable lessons at minimal cost. The merchants would eventually make up their modest losses;
the women he left sadder but wiser would find lovers foolish enough to commit their lives to them. But
none would forget him.
He’d had a few narrow escapes, but he was careful and calculating and had spent hardly any time in
jail.
Now for the first time he was lost, because he had seen Nina.
Nina. Too small a name for so much woman. She deserved a title, a crown: poetical discourse. La
Vista de la Señora hermosa de la montana y la mar y la selva que-mara. The vision of the beautiful
lady of the mountains and the sea and the burning jungle. My lady, he corrected himself. Too beautiful by
far for a fat, hirsute old geezer like Max who probably couldn’t even get it up on a regular basis. He was
overweight, and despite the fact that he was smooth on top, the hairiest man Carlos had ever seen. Lying
with him must be like making love to an ape. How could she stand such a thing? She was desperately in
need of a rescue, whether she knew it or not, and he was the man to execute it.
They ran a small lodge, a way station really, up the Alta Madre de Dios, catering to the occasional
parties of tourists and scientists and photographers who came to gaze with snooty self-importance at the
jungle. Gringos and Europeans, mostly. Carlos could but shake his head at their antics. Only fools would
pay for the dubious privilege of standing in the midday heat while looking for bugs and lizards and the
creatures that stumbled through the trees. Such things were to be avoided. Or killed, or skinned, or sold.
They also grew food to sell to the expeditions. And a little tea, more by way of experiment than profit.
But it could not be denied that the foreigners came and went and left behind dollars and deutsche marks
and pounds. Real money, not the debased currencies of America Sur. Max saved, and made small
improvements to the lodge, and saved still more.
Nina would have been enough. That there might also be money to be had up the Alta Madre de Dios
helped to push Carlos over the edge.
Like a good general scouting the plain of battle he began tentatively, hesitantly. He adopted one of his
many postures; that of the simple, servile, God-fearing hard worker, needful only of a dry place to sleep
and an honest job to put his hands to. Suspicious but overworked Max, always sweating and puffing and
mopping at his balding head, analyzed this uninvited supplicant before bestowing upon him a reluctant
benediction in the form of a month’s trial. It was always hard to find good workers for the station
because it lay several days’ travel by boat from town, and strong young men quickly grew tired of the
isolation. Not only did this stranger both speak and write, he knew some English as well. That was most
useful for dealing with visitors.
Max watched him carefully, as Carlos suspected he would. So he threw himself into his work,
objecting to nothing, not even the cleaning and treating of the cesspool or the scraping of the bottom of
the three boats that the lodge used for transportation, accepting all assignments with alacrity and a
grateful smile. The only others who worked for Max were Indians from the small village across the river.
Carlos ignored them and they him, each perfectly content with their lot.
For weeks he was careful to avoid even looking in Nina’s direction, lest Max might catch him. He was
friendly, and helpful, and drew praise from the foreigners who came to stay their night or two at the
lodge. Max was pleased. His contentment made room for gradual relaxation and, eventually, for a certain
amount of trust. Three months after Carlos had been hired, Max tested him by giving him the task of