"Mike Resnick - Encounters" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

bulk of the morning and afternoon attending maybe half a dozen graveside services, and I
was so moved by the sad story of a lovely young milkmaid who died of bloat after drinking her
employer's entire wine cellar that I even stepped up and said a few words on her behalf
myself.
Then, at about twilight, they lugged in another casket, and I moseyed over to find out the
identity of the deceased.
“I don't think anyone knew his real name,” said one of the gravediggers. “His headstone says
he's Gustave Book.”
“Where are all the mourners?” I asked.
“He didn't seem to have any friends or family, so we're burying him right now,” was the
answer.
“That's kind of tragic, a man devoted to books like poor old Gustave,” I said.
“Well, it's not a profession designed to make you a lot of lasting friends,” said the
gravedigger. “A lot of people went broke at old Gustave's place of business.”
I never knew anyone to go broke buying books before, but I figured Gustave must have been
a dealer in rare antiquarian stuff and maybe some illuminated manuscripts and the like, and I
figured he must have had a very unhappy missus, because with all the money he left her she
could at least have bought him a bigger headstone and put his right name on it, but that
wasn't none of my business. I just thanked the gravediggers for their information, sat down on
a bench and watched ’em plant old Gustave, and then took a little constitutional around the
cemetery while waiting for Ivor to show up.
He was there right at midnight, just like he'd promised, with his old swaybacked horse and his
wooden cart.
“Did they bury him today, Doctor Jones?” he asked eagerly.
“You're in luck, Brother Ivor,” I said. “He's been resting peaceably for the better part of six
hours now.”
“Excellent!” said Ivor. “Where is he?”
I led him over to the grave. “He showed up kind of late, and they barely had time to bury him
before dark,” I explained. “Evidently they aim to plant the headstone tomorrow.”
“Let's get busy,” said Ivor, tossing me a shovel.
“What'sthis for?” I asked.
“You're going to help me dig, aren't you?”
“Well, actually, I had in mind something more in the line of offering you encouragement and
giving the Baron the benefit of my sage advice and worldly experience,” I said.
“Ten extra American dollars,” said Ivor.
“Fifty,” I said.
“Fifteen,” he countered.
“Tell you what,” I said. “We'll split the difference. Make it an even forty and it's a deal.”
Well, we haggled for another five minutes, and I finally agreed to apprentice at the
graverobbing trade for $34.29. It took us the better part of two hours to dig down to old
Gustave, and then we found that we weren't strong enough to pull his casket out of the hole,
so we unlatched it and I kind of climbed in with him and handed him up to Ivor, who dragged
him by the feet over to the cart and loaded him up. Then we spent another hour putting all the
dirt back and patting it down nice and neat, and finally we climbed into the cart and the old
horse started trotting along the empty streets.
“He sure looks calm and peaceful, lying there staring up at the moon like he is,” I said, turning
in my seat to get my first real good look at Gustave.
“I wonder what he died of,” said Ivor. “I hope it wasn't anything catching.”
I opened Gustave's formal jacket and took a quick peek. “Looks like he was shot to death,” I
said.