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

"What?" Burbridge asked frightenedly.
"I'm starved, I said. Where to? Home or straight to the Butcher?"
"To the Butcher, and hurry." Burbridge was ranting, leaning forward and
breathing hotly on Redrick's neck. "Straight to his house. Come on! He still
owes me seven hundred. Will you drive faster? You're crawling like a louse
in a puddle." He started cursing impotently and angrily, sputtering,
panting. It ended in a coughing fit.
Redrick did not answer. He had neither the time nor the energy to
pacify Buzzard when he was going at full speed. He wanted to Finish up as
soon as possible and get an hour or so of sleep before his appointment at
the Metropole. He turned onto Sixteenth Street, drove two blocks, and parked
in front of a gray, two-story private house.
The Butcher came to the door himself. He had just gotten up and was on
his way to the bathroom. He was wearing a luxurious robe with gold tassels
and was carrying a glass with his false teeth. His hair was disheveled and
there were dark circles under his eyes.
"Oh, itsh Red? Sho how are you?"
"Put in your teeth and let's go."
"Uh-huh." He nodded him into the waiting room and hurried off to the
bathroom, scuffing along in his Persian slippers.
"Who is it?" he asked from there.
"Burbridge."
"What?"
"His legs."
Redrick could hear running water, snorting, splashing, and some- thing
fall and roll along the tile floor in the bathroom. Redrick sank exhaustedly
into an armchair and lit a cigarette. The waiting room was nice. The Butcher
didn't skimp. He was a highly competent and very fashionable surgeon,
influential in both city and state medical circles. He had gotten mixed up
with the stalkers not for the money, of course. He collected from the Zone:
he took various types of swag, which he used for research in his practice;
he took knowledge, since he studied stricken stalkers and the various
diseases, mutilations, and traumas of the human body that had never been
known before; and he took glory, becoming famous as the first doctor on the
planet to be a specialist in nonhuman diseases of man. He was also not
averse to taking money, and in great amounts.
"What specifically is wrong with his legs?" he asked, appearing from
the bathroom with a huge towel around his neck. He was carefully drying his
sensitive fingers with the corner of the towel.
"Landed in the jelly," Redrick said. The Butcher whistled.
"Well, that's the end of Burbridge. Too bad, he was a famous stalker."
"It's all right," Redrick said, leaning back in the chair. "You'll make
artificial legs for him. He'll hobble around the Zone on them."
"All right." The Butcher's face became completely businesslike.
"Wait a minute, I'll get dressed."
While he dressed and made a call--probably to his clinic to pre- pare
things for the operation--Redrick lounged immobile in the armchair and
smoked. He moved only once to get his flask. He drank in small sips because
there was only a little on the bottom, and he tried to think about nothing.
He simply waited.