"Ward Moore - It Becomes Necessary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moore Ward)

boredom for some pointless horseplay. The bearer of the UN flag had a broken front tooth against which
he kept thrusting his tongue; he looked bewildered and innocent. The man beside him was wall-eyed;
Maggie wished profoundly he could take some position where both eyes looked at her simultaneously.

The angelic leader stepped forward, epauletted with importance. "You 'ave not finish your beer,
Madame?"

Now what happens? Does my compatriot with the Kenya passport produce a paper signed by the
president of the republic attesting him a double-agent of long standing, who is loyal not only to la patrie
but to la reine brittanique and the whole droning list of allies glorieux? Or does he whip out two Smith
and Wessons from shoulder holsters and cow the whole mob until the US cavalry (read: paratroopers)
comes to the rescue? She shifted her gaze slightly; the agent had vanished.

The leader took her glass and brought it to his carven, pouted mouth. She saw she had left a lipstick
smear on the rim and that he had carefully turned the glass so he would be drinking from the same spot.
The ruling spirit, she thought, but not in death; this is farce, not drama. "What is it this time, Chester?"

He took a full breath. "À bas les États Unis," he shouted, and then translating for her benefit in a
more confidential tone, "To 'ell weeth Americains." He swallowed what was left of the beer in a gulp.
 She pushed her chair back. "Excuse me."

"A minute, Madame."

Ceremony, ceremony, thought Maggie; it'll be the death of me. The Queen opens Parliament, the
President reviews the Republican Guard on the Champs de Mars, the ruler of Holland sticks her finger in
the dike. You can't even blame it on foreigners: the bailiff knocks subserviently on the jury room door to
ask, What is your pleasure? The chairman inquires, For what purpose does the delegate from the Canal
Zone arise? The Flag comes tenderly down as the bugle sounds Retreat and the Nation's might yields to
the inexorable processes of Nature.

He caught her wrist. "Raymond! Ici!"

Raymond was lantern-jawed, self-conscious, in constant danger of stumbling over his own feet as he
advanced holding in his hands an American flag as aged as the UN banner. Though it was folded, she
could see from the alignment of the stars that it dated before 1959. Raymond smiled at her deprecatingly.
The leader took it and thrust it at her. "Speet, Madame," he invited.

She almost smiled at the theatricalism of it. Presumably if she made the gesture she would convince
them of her political purity. Demonstrating indifference or contempt for the rectangle of red, white and
blue material would establish her position in their eyes more firmly than the most fervent protestations or
solemn oaths. The agent shouldn't have run off; he would certainly have spat with zeal. And why not?

"Thanks. You just drank my beer and my mouth is dry." She tried to slide her wrist out of his grasp,
but it was too tight.

"You loaf these Defenders? These fascists?"

"They killed my husband."

"Alors!" He turned, speaking so rapidly she couldn't follow him, hearing only the words, "mari …