"Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. The Final Circle of Paradise (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

I read. It was a law concerning immigration, printed in
elegant type on heavy paper and in four languages. Immigration
was absolutely forbidden. The customs man regarded me steadily.
"Curious, isn't it?" he asked.
"In any case it's intriguing," I replied, drawing my
fountain pen. "Where do I sign?"
"Where and how you please," said the customs man. "Just
across will do."
I signed under the Russian text over the line "I have been
informed on the immigration laws."
'Thank you," said the customs man, filing the paper away
in his desk, 'Now you know practically all our laws. And during
your entire stay - How long will you be staying with us?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"It's difficult to say in advance. Depends on how the work
will go."
"Shall we say a month?"
'That would be about it. Let's say a month."
"And during this whole month," he bent over the passport
making some notation, "during this entire month you won't need
any other laws." He handed me my passport. "I shouldn't even
have to mention that you can prolong your stay with us to any
reasonable extent. But in the meantime, let it be thirty days.
If you find it desirable to stay longer, visit the police
station on the 16th of May and pay one dollar... You have
dollars?"
"Yes."
"That's fine. By the way, it is not at all necessary to
have exclusively a dollar. We accept any currency. Rubles,
pounds, cruzeiros."
"I don't have cruzeiros," I said. 'I have only dollars,
rubles, and some English pounds. Will that suit you?"
"Undoubtedly. By the way, so as not to forget, would you
please deposit ninety dollars and seventy-two cents."
"With pleasure," I said, "but why?"
"It's customary. To guarantee the minimum needs. We have
never had anyone with us who did not have some needs."
I counted out ninety-one dollars, and without sitting
down, he proceeded to write out a receipt. His neck grew red
from the awkward position. I looked around. The white counter
stretched along the entire pavilion. On the other side of the
barrier, customs inspectors in white smiled cordially, laughed,
explained things in a confidential manner. On this side,
brightly clad tourists shuffled impatiently, snapped suitcase
locks, and gaped excitedly. While they waited they feverishly
thumbed through advertising brochures, loudly devised all kinds
of plans, secretly and openly anticipated happy days ahead, and
now thirsted to surmount the white counter as quickly as
possible. Sedate London clerks and their athletic-looking
brides, pushy Oklahoma farmers in bright shirts hanging outside