"Paul Park - Starbridge 03 - The Cult of Loving Kindness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Park Paul)

“Please sit down,” said the deputy administrator. He indicated a wooden stool and the smuggler sank
onto it, his knees spread apart. His fat face held no expression. His hair, plentiful upon his neck and
hands, was thin on top. His scalp was slick with perspiration.

Next to the pile of medallions a small statue was lying on its side. It was the second part of the smuggler’s
consignment; the deputy administrator lifted it in both hands and set it upright underneath the lamp.
Though only nine inches tall it weighed several pounds, a copper statue of St. Abu Starbridge standing
erect, his hand held out in front of him. The tattoo on his palm was inlaid with a plug of solid gold.

The deputy administrator was a judge of craftsmanship. He ran his fingers over the folds of the saint’s
copper cloak, admiring the work. “Jon Blox,” he said. With his left hand he turned over the pages of the
smuggler’s passport.

The man nodded. A mosquito had landed on the crown of his head. The deputy administrator watched it
drink, and swell with blood, and drift away.

“Do you have anything to tell me?” he asked. “You must admit you’re in an intricate position.”

The smuggler stared at him briefly and then turned his head. He looked out over the wooden balustrade.
Something was scrabbling in the bush on the other side of the yard. After a moment a badger waddled
onto the perimeter and pressed its naked face against the fence.

The deputy administrator rubbed his eyes. These devotees were hard to break, for they were buttressed
in their faith by the example of their saint, who never spoke to his tormentors even when the fire was
around his feet. “You could make this simpler for yourself,” he said. “Simpler and more complex. But as
it is, you have neglected to fill out any of the proper forms. These items, though proscribed for the general
public, nevertheless may have legitimate artistic and educational uses. I have seen a statuette just like this
in the cultural museum in Charn.”

A tremor of interest passed over the smuggler’s face. He turned back toward the light. His voice was
low—“What do you mean?”

“I mean that there’s no reason for despair. This case may be more complicated than you understand.”

He had the man’s attention now. The soft pucker of a frown appeared between the smuggler’s brows.
“What do you mean?” he asked again.

The deputy administrator took a paper from his desk. He read a few lines from the back of it and then
looked up. “You are accused of smuggling these items of religious contraband,” he said, indicating the
pile of medallions and the statue of the saint. “But perhaps we might consider entering a lesser charge,
under the right circumstances. For example,” he continued, “Customs Regulation 412ao forbids the
export of all artifacts without a license from the Bureau of Antiquities. If you prefer, Regulation 6161j
forbids the use of precious metals in the decorative arts. It is a question of a modest fine.”
The smuggler shook his head. “I know the penalty for what I’ve done.”

“I’m suggesting you may not. Your offense may be more trivial than you suppose.”

Five wooden steps descended to the yard from the veranda of the customs shed. Two soldiers slouched
on these, their backs to the administrator. Occasionally as they turned their heads, he could see the glow
of their marijuana cigarettes and catch flickers of their conversation. Now one got up. He ambled over to