"Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Roadside Picnic (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

stalking. Thanks to you, captain, my eyes were opened. If it hadn't been for
you....
"What were you doing in the Prezone Area?"
"What do you mean, what? I work there. Two years now.
To bring the unpleasant conversation to a close, I showed Captain
Quarterblad my papers. He took my hook and examined it page by page,
sniffing and smelling every stamp and seal on it. He returned the book and I
could see how pleased he was. His eyes lit up and there was color in his
cheeks.
"Forgive me, Schuhart," he said. "I didn't expect it of you. I'm glad
to see that my advice wasn't wasted on you. Why, that's marvelous. You can
believe me or not, but even back then I knew that you would turn out all
right. I just couldn't believe that a fellow like you...." He went on and on
like a record. Looked like I had saddled myself with another cured
melancholic. Of course, I listened, eyes lowered modestly, nodding,
spreading my arms innocently, and if I recall, shyly scuffing the sidewalk
with my foot. The gorillas behind the captain's back listened a bit, and
then got bored and went off some place more exciting. Meanwhile the captain
was painting glorious vistas for my future: education was the light,
ignorance was darkness, and the Lord loves and appreciates honest labor, and
so on and so forth. He was slinging the same bull the priest used to give us
in prison every Sunday. And I really needed a drink--toy thirst wouldn't
wait. All right, I thought to myself, Red, you can put up with this too. You
have to, so be patient. He can't keep it up for much longer Look, he's
losing his breath al ready. A lucky break. One of the patrol cars started
signaling. Captain Quarterblad looked around, heaved a sigh of dismay, and
gave me his hand.
"Well, I'm glad I met you, Honest Mr. Schuhart. I would have been happy
to drink to this acquaintance. I can't have whiskey, doctor's orders, but I
would have enjoyed a beer. But, duty calls. We'll meet again," he said. God
forbid. But I shook his hand and blushed and shuffled my feet, just like he
wanted me to. He finally left me and I headed swift as an arrow for the
Borscht.
It's always empty that time of day in the Borscht. Ernest was behind
tile bar, wiping glasses, and holding them up to the light. It's amazing, by
the way, that whenever you come in, bartenders are always wiping glasses, as
though their salvation depended on it or something. He'll just stand there
all day--pick up a glass, squint at it, hold it up to the light, breathe on
it, and start rubbing. He'll rub and rub, look it over again (this time from
the bottom) and then rub some more.
"Hi, Ernie! Leave the poor thing alone. You'll rub a hole through it."
He looked at me through the glass, muttered something indistinct and
without a further word poured me four fingers of vodka. I climbed up on a
stool, took a sip, made a face, shook my head, and had another sip. The
refrigerator was humming, the jukebox was playing something soft and low,
Ernest was laboring over another glass. It was peaceful. I finished my drink
and put the glass back down on the bar. Ernest immediately poured me another
four fingers.
"A little better?" he muttered. "Coming round, stalker?"
"Stick to your wiping, why don't you. You know, one guy rubbed until he