"Foster, Alan Dean - Alien Nation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

They passed a city park, still green despite an obvious lack of regular
maintenance. City workers weren't fond of the alien end of town. Weeds had
supplanted much of the original grass and had also invaded the cracks in
the sidewalk, advancing on the once sacrosanct pavement itself. Despite the
lateness of the hour a group of alien families had gathered to enjoy each
other's company. They were engaged in an alien game of uncertain purpose
and incomprehensible strategy. Sykes stared and shook his head, trying to
make some sense of it and failing utterly as Tuggle pointed the slugmobile
up Washington.
"Jeez, they call that organized gang-bang a game?" Tuggle pursed his lips.
On the billboard to their right, an exquisite female alien displayed
yard-high white teeth while pressing a cold Pepsi to her lips. The
billboard was the only piece of new construction in the immediate
neighborhood.
Tuggle slowed as they approached the next intersection, the light against
them. As soon as they slowed to a halt, a huge palm slammed against the
window close by Sykes's head. He jerked back involuntarily, startled, then
relaxed when he got a good look at the hand's owner.
The Newcomer was a derelict. Mumbling in his own sibilant language, he
stood next to the car, weaving in place while fighting to stay erect. Filth
and grime coated his face and worn clothing and his eyes were half-lidded
and blood-
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shot. One dirty, broken-nailed fist clutched a quart carton of milk. It
looked small as a pint in the massive palm.
Tuggle glanced speculatively in his partner's direction. Sykes returned a
look of disgust, shook his head negatively, then rolled down the window on
the alien's side.
"Can't you see this is a cop car, buddy? Look, we ain't in the mood
tonight. So take a hike, okay?"
As soon as he finished he caught a full whiff of the derelict's breath.
Wincing, he rolled up the window as Tuggle pulled away. In the enclosed
atmosphere of the slugmobile the smell was slow to dissipate.
Tuggle's eyes took in the rearview. "He's standing in the middle of the
street, waving his arms."
Sykes didn't bother to look back. The disgust was still clear on his face,
his nose still wrinkled against the odor. "No traffic and it's late. He'll
move in a minute or two and find himself an alley somewhere." Digging into
his pocket, he found a plastic container of breath mints and popped a
couple into his mouth. Tuggle refused the offer of one and the container
vanished anew.
"Why's it have to be sour milk that these guys get wasted on? What the
hell's wrong with Jack Daniels, or Thunderbird, for crissakcs?"
Tuggle shrugged, his favorite gesture. He was a lot less flamboyant than
his partner, and consciously so. "Beats me. Beats some of the eggheads,
too, from what I've read about it. The Newcomers' physiology is full of
curves, some of lem physical, some of 'em chemical. You got to admit one
thing: it's a cheap drunk."
"Yeah." Sykes stared out the window, studying lights and lonely streets.