"Mike Resnick - Tales Of The Galactic Midway - Alien-Tamer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

“That's pretty much up to Mr. Ahasuerus. I'd guess about fifteen to twenty.” He
paused. “You got an animal for me?”
“I might have.”
“Yeah?”
“What does the job pay?” asked the Sabellian.
“Pay?” repeated Monk. “You got it all wrong. I need an animal for my act in—”
Suddenly he stopped speaking and a huge smile spread across his face.
“Are you saying what Ithink you're saying?”
“It is entirely possible.”
“Then what the hell are we standing around here for?” said Monk. “Let's go
somewhere where we can break out a bottle or two of really fine drinkin’ stuff and
talk a little serious business.”
“I know just the place,” replied the creature, starting off toward the door.
Monk, still grinning from ear to ear, fell into step behind it.

Chapter 3
Monk sat on the floor of the Sabellian's room, his back propped up against a stucco
wall, a huge cigar sticking out the corner of his mouth. He stared at the tall, oddly
shaped glass in his hand, took a second tentative sip just to be sure he had analyzed
the first one correctly, and looked up at the creature.
“You got any grain alcohol in the place?” he asked at last.
“Have you an abrasion?”
“Why don't you just bring it on over and not worry your head about it?” replied
Monk.
The Sabellian shrugged, turned, and left the room, and Monk once again studied his
surroundings. He had thought Mr. Ahasuerus’ office aboard the carnival ship was
strange, but now he realized just how far out of his way the blue man had gone to
make his partner and crew feel at home there.
Compared to the Sabellian's apartment, it seemed sensible and conservative to then th
degree.
There was, for starters, the furniture. Monk had taken one look at it and opted for
sitting on the floor—and as he surveyed it again, he was certain he had made the
correct decision. Chairs and couches that were made for seven-foot beings with short
legs and vestigial wings simply weren't suitable for humans.
Neither, he reflected, was anything else in the room. It had taken his eyes almost a
full minute to adjust to the very dim lighting, and the place's color scheme—light gray
on dark gray—wasn't anything to write home about. Two walls were covered by
paintings and photographs, all of them inartistically rendered, of groups of Sabellians,
and a huge holograph of what seemed to be a very dead tree dominated one corner of
the room. In fact, it dominated the only corner of the room, since the architect seemed
to have a fondness for obtuse angles and inelegant curves. The carpet was thin and
worn, made from some artificial fiber he couldn't identify, and had an irregular gray-
on-gray pattern that made no sense to him at all.
Another wall was lined with books and discs, though since he couldn't read Sabellian
he had no idea what subjects they covered. If the creature had a video or sound
system, he hadn't spotted it yet. It also didn't have anything resembling an ashtray,
although it had quickly produced a shallow hexagonal bowl for Monk's
convenience—and had just as quickly opened the room's three diamond-shaped
windows when it got its first whiff of his cigar.
It returned as Monk was wondering what its bathroom looked like, carrying a small