"Robert Charles Wilson - Julian- A Christmas Story" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Robert Charles)

copy of Easton's Against the Brazilians, illicitly borrowed from the Estate library; Julian had recognized
the title, but refrained from ratting on me, since he loved the book as much as I did and longed to discuss
it with a fellow enthusiast (of which there were precious few among his aristo relations)—in short, he did
me an unbegged favor, and we became fast friends despite our differences.

In those early days I had not known how fond he was of blasphemy. But I had learned since, and it
had not deterred me. Much.

We had not set out with the specific aim of visiting the Tip; but at the nearest crossroad Julian turned
west, riding past cornfields and gourdfields already harvested and sun-whitened split-rail fences on which
dense blackberry gnarls had grown up. The air was cool but the sun was fiercely bright. Julian and Sam
wore broad-brimmed hats to protect their faces; I wore a plain linen pakool hat, sweat-stained, rolled
about my ears. Before long we passed the last rude shacks of the indentured laborers, whose near-naked
children gawked at us from the roadside, and it became obvious we were going to the Tip, because
where else on this road was there to go?—unless we continued east for many hours, all the way to the
ruins of the old towns, from the days of the False Tribulation.

The Tip was located far from Williams Ford to prevent poaching and disorder. There was a strict
pecking order to the Tip. This is how it worked: professional scavengers hired by the Estate brought their
pickings from the ruined places to the Tip, which was a pine-fenced enclosure (a sort of stockade) in a
patch of grassland and prairie flowers. There the newly-arrived goods were roughly sorted, and riders
were dispatched to the Estate to make the highborn aware of the latest acquisitions, and various aristos
(or their trusted servants) would ride out to claim the prime gleanings. The next day, the leasing class
would be allowed to sort through what was left; after that, if anything remained, indentured laborers could
rummage among it, if they calculated it worthwhile to make the journey.

Every prosperous town had a Tip; though in the east it was sometimes called a Till, a Dump, or an
Eebay.

Today we were fortunate: several wagonloads of scrounge had lately arrived, and riders had not yet
been sent to notify the Estate. The gate was manned by a Home Guard, who looked at us suspiciously
until Sam announced the name of Julian Comstock; then the guard briskly stepped aside, and we went
inside the enclosure.

Many of the wagons were still unloading, and a chubby Tipman, eager to show off his bounty, hurried
toward us as we dismounted and moored our horses. "Happy coincidence!" he cried. "Gentlemen!"
Addressing mostly Sam by this remark, with a cautious smile for Julian and a disdainful sidelong glance at
me. "Anything in particular you're looking for?"

"Books," Julian said promptly, before Sam or I could answer.

"Books! Ordinarily, I set aside books for the Dominion Conservator . . ."

"The boy is a Comstock," Sam said. "I don't suppose you mean to balk him."

The Tipman reddened. "No, not at all . . . in fact we came across something in our digging . . . a sort
of library in miniature . . . I'll show you, if you like."

This was intriguing, especially to Julian, who beamed as if he had been invited to a Christmas party.
We followed the stout Tipman to a freshly-arrived canvasback wagon, from which a laborer was tossing