"Arkadi and Boris Strugatsky. Monday begins on Saturday (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

"A lot," I answered.
"Hand it in, too," said the lieutenant.
I laid out four issues of two-day-old Pravdas, three issues of the
local Fisherman, two issues of the Literary Gazette, eight boxes of matches,
six pieces of Golden Key toffee, and a marked-down wire brush for cleaning
kerosine stoves.
"I can't hand in the drinks," I said dryly. "Five glasses with syrup
and four without syrup."
I was beginning to comprehend what was involved, and I was extremely
nauseated and discomfited at the idea that it would be necessary to find
excuses for myself.
"Seventy-four kopecks, comrade Lieutenant," reported the youthful
Kovalev.
The lieutenant pensively regarded the pile of newspapers and match
boxes.
"Were you amusing yourself, or what?" he asked me.
"Or what," I said gloomily.
"Not prudent of you," said the lieutenant. "Not prudent, citizen. Tell
me about it."
I told. At the end of the story, I asked the lieutenant most earnestly
not to interpret my actions as an attempt to save up the price of a car. My
ears were burning. The lieutenant chuckled.
"And why not so interpret it?" he inquired. "Cases of it have been
attempted."
I shrugged.
"I can assure you such a thought couldn't enter my head. . . . What am
I saying? It couldn't, when, in fact, it didn't!"
The lieutenant was silent for a long time. The young Kovalev took my
passport and again set to studying it.
"It would be rather ridiculous to suppose . . ." I said, distraught.
"An altogether loony concept . . . to save by the kopeck . . ." I shrugged
again. "You'd be better off begging on the church steps, as they say. .
"As to begging, we try to combat that," said the lieutenant
significantly.
"And that's correct and only natural. . . . I just don't understand
what that has to do with me. . . ." I caught myself shrugging once more, and
resolved not to do it again.
The lieutenant was silent for a tiresomely long time, examining the
coin.
"We'll have to make out a report," he said finally.
"Please, of course . . . although . . ." I didn't know exactly what
followed the "although."
For a while, the lieutenant looked at me in expectation of a
continuation. But I was busy figuring as to which section of the criminal
code my actions came under, so he drew a sheet of paper toward him and set
to writing.
The young Kovalev returned to his post. The lieutenant was squeaking
away with his pen, and dipping it often and noisily into the inkwell. I sat,
dully staring at the posters hung on the walls and thinking, listlessly,
how, in my place, Lomonosov, for example, would have grabbed his passport