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

the perimeter and knelt down by the fence.

“What do you want from me?” demanded the smuggler, his face suddenly alive, contorted with disgust.
“Aach, I know your kind. Bureaucratic parasites!” He brought some saliva into his mouth as if to spit,
then paused, then swallowed it again. He leaned forward on his stool, placing his fat fist upon the desk.
“Let me tell you now, I have no information. No addresses. Not even a name.”

At the fence, the soldier reached into his pocket and brought out part of a candy bar. The badger stood
opposite him on its hind legs.

The deputy administrator shrugged. “You misunderstand me. But I appreciate your fears. Perhaps you
are familiar with certain worst-case scenarios. Perhaps involving relatives or personal friends.” He
smiled—a wasted gesture, for the lower part of his emaciated face was covered by a veil.

“Let me explain,” he said. “Some members of my department do what they can to discourage certain
activities, which they interpret to be linked to superstition and idolatry. They feel the truth of man’s
condition can be better understood through reason than through faith.”

Again the smuggler’s face seemed to have shut down, and settled into stolid impassivity. The deputy
administrator tried again: “Let me explain. Our function here is not only to prosecute. It is to inform.
These objects”—here he waved his hand dismissively at the pile of medallions—“these objects have no
meaning. They are the relics of a bankrupt church.”

On the steps, the remaining soldier slapped his neck and swore. And at the fence across the yard, his
comrade got up from his knees. He was looking up into the sky.

The lights from the compound overwhelmed all but the brightest stars. But now the moon was rising, its
pale edge gleaming among the tallest trees. The smuggler studied it in silence until the arc of its great rim
rose unimpeded over the forest canopy. Then he bowed his head and stared down at the floor between
his knees. “I guess I’ll never leave this place alive,” he said. The new light gave his face a new
composure.

The deputy administrator rubbed his eyes. “Your position is more favorable than you suspect. You have
not begun to think about your options.”

The smuggler made no reply, only stared at the floorboards underneath his boots. No man is so stupid
that he cannot learn, reflected the administrator. But it takes time; he clapped his hands. “We are both
tired,” he said. “And I am explaining myself badly. Even so, please think about what I have said. And I
will speak to my superiors.” He looked down at the appointment book upon his desk. “In the meantime,”
he said, “I have you scheduled tentatively for next Friday. That’s the thirty-fourth.”
***

The soldiers took the man away. In a few minutes one of them returned to the porch bearing
refreshments—crusts of bread and cheese, and a tin basin full of water. He deposited them on the desk
and then withdrew.
After he had gone, the deputy administrator sat by himself for a long time. He switched off the small light
upon his desk. Now the moon was rising, showing its silver belly in a sea of darkness.
He left the food untouched. He sat listening to the mosquitoes and the cautious stir of animals beyond the
fence. In the distance, at the limit of his senses, he could hear occasional noises from the port—steam
whistles from the packet boats and once, the clang of a buoy on the gentle sea. Occasionally the air was