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

got a genie. Ended up on easy street."
"Who was that?" Ernest asked suspiciously.
"It was another bartender here. Before your time."
"What happened?"
"Nothing. Why do you think the Visitation happened. It was all his
rubbing. Who do you think the Visitors were?"
"You're a bum," Ernie said with approval.
He went to the kitchen and came back with a plate of grilled hot dogs.
He put the plate in front of me, moved the catsup over toward me, and went
back to his glasses. Ernest knows his stuff. His trained eye recognizes a
stalker returned from the Zone with swag and he knows what a stalker needs
after a visit to the Zone. Good old Ernie. A humanitarian.
I finished the hot dogs, lit a cigarette, and started calculating how
much Ernie must make on us. I'm not sure of the prices the loot goes for in
Europe, but I'd heard that an empty can get almost 2,500, and Ernie only
gives us 400· Batteries there cost at least too and we're lucky if we can
get to from him. Of course, shipping the loot to Europe must cost plenty.
Grease this palm and that one.... and the stationmaster must be on his
payroll too. When you think about it, Ernest really doesn't make that much,
maybe fifteen or twenty per- cent, no more. And if he gets caught, it's ten
years at hard labor.
Here my honorable meditations were interrupted by some polite type. I
hadn't even heard him walk in. He announced himself next to my elbow, asking
permission to sit down.
"Don't mention it. Please do."
He was a skinny little guy with a sharp nose and a bow tie. His face
looked familiar, but I couldn't place him. He climbed up on the stool next
to me and said to Ernest.
"Bourbon, please!" And then turned to me. "Excuse me, but don't I know
you? You work in the International Institute, don't you?"
"Yes. And you?"
He speedily whipped out his business card and set it in front of me.
"Aloysius Macnaught, Agent Plenipotentiary of the Emigration Bureau."
Well, of course, I knew him. He bugs people to leave the city. As it
is, there's hardly half the population left in Harmont, yet he has to clear
the place of us completely. I pushed away his card with my fingernail.
"No thanks. I'm not interested. My dream is to die in my home- I town."
"But why?" he jumped in quickly. "Forgive my indiscretion, but what's
keeping you here?"
"What do you mean? Fond memories of childhood. My first kiss in the
municipal park. Mommy and daddy. My first time drunk, right here in this
bar. The police station so dear to my heart...." I took a heavily used
handkerchief from my pocket and dabbed my eyes.
"No, I can't leave for any amount!"
He laughed, took a tiny sip of bourbon, and spoke in a thoughtful way.
"I just can't understand you Harmonites. Life is tough in the city.
There's military control. Few amenities. The Zone right next to you --it's
like sitting on a volcano. An epidemic could break out any day. Or something
worse. I can understand the old people. It's hard for them to leave. But
you, how old are you? Twenty-two, twenty-three? Can't you understand that