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

“Yes,” said the blue man, nodding. “Mr. Monk himself suggested the inscription after
explaining that such memorials are common on Earth.”
“Did Mr. Monk also explain that such memorials, on those very rare occasions when
they are given to animals, are placed on the grave of the deceased, and that the
fucking bear is buried three hundred light-years from here?”
“No,” admitted Mr. Ahasuerus, looking distressed. “No, he didn't.”
“Figures,” muttered Flint. “Where is he?”
“Waiting for his new animals, I should imagine.”
“Well, let's hope this batch is better than the last. By the way, how much did that
piece of rock set us back?”
“Three thousand credits,” replied the blue man.
“I don't know from credits. How much is that in American money?”
“You really should make some effort to learn those conversion tables I made up for
you.”
“Skip the lecture,” said Flint. “How much?”
“About twenty-four hundred dollars,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus. “Of course, that's 1982
Constant dollars. I have no idea what inflation may have done to—”
“Twenty-four hundred dollars?” yelled Flint. “You tell Monk that it's coming out of
his pay!” He snuffed out his cigarette and lit another one. “Jesus H. Christ! I spend
the better part of two years turning this show into a paying proposition, and the
second I turn my back you start okaying money for tombstones!”
“We can afford it,” said Mr. Ahasuerus calmly.
“Pull a couple more stunts like this and I'll bet we can even afford a matching one for
a bald blue skeleton,” said Flint. He paused for a moment and emitted a deep sigh.
“Look, I don't mean to lose my temper with you. But after two years you ought to
know that all carnies are liars.”
“Including you?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus, pulling his lips back from his teeth in his
equivalent of a smile.
“Including me. But I'm selective about it: I just lie to the marks. Monk and the rest,
they'll lie to anyone.” He looked down at the granite marker again.
“Oh, well, see if there's anything resembling a graveyard around here and plant it.”
“And if not?”
“Dump it into Monk's room and lethim worry about it.”
Flint spent the next half hour supervising the rest of the unloading, discovered that he
had been sent a ride that had been earmarked for the humanoids of Canphor VI and
had not received the one he had ordered to accommodate the elephantine beings of
Girodus II, had the crew reload it into the ship, and sent off still another nasty
message to the Corporation. He did receive three tons of sugar, but with his cotton
candy machine out of order he didn't see much use for it, and reloaded it as well.
Finally, sweating profusely and wondering why Mr. Ahasuerus seemed to pick only
exceptionally hot worlds or frigid ones, he clambered down the gangplank, lit another
cigarette, took his shirt off, and signed a number of receipts after having one of the
aliens translate them for him.
He was about to go to the carnival ship's galley for a cold beer—which, he knew,
would be lukewarm and taste like weak tea—when a small hunchbacked human
approached him.
“What's wrong now?” asked Flint.
“Nothing,” replied the hunchback, speaking with a severe stammer. “I just thought I'd
see if there was any mail.”
“That's very thoughtful of you, Tojo,” said Flint dryly. “You think the United States