"Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Roadside Picnic (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора He locked himself in the bathroom, threw his clothes in the pail, and
placed the brass knuckles, the remaining nuts and bolts, and his cigarettes on the shelf. He turned himself under the boiling hot shower for a long time, rubbing his body with a rough sponge until it was bright red. He shut off the shower and sat on the edge of the tub, smoking. The pipes were gurgling and Guta was clattering dishes out in the kitchen. Then there was the smell of frying fish and Guta knocked, bringing him fresh underwear. "Hurry it up," she ordered. "The fish is getting cold." She was completely back to normal--and back to being bossy. Redrick chuckled as he dressed--that is, put on hi shorts and T-shirt --and went to the table. "Now I can eat," he said as he seated himself. "Did you put your underwear in the pail?" "Uh-huh," he said with his mouth full. "Good fish." "Did you cover it with water?" "No-ope. Sorry, sir, it won't happen again, sir. Will you sit still? Forget it!" He caught her hand and tried to pull her into his lap, but she pulled away and sat across from him. "You're neglecting your husband," Redrick said, his mouth full again. "Too squeamish?" "Some husband you are now. You're just an empty bag, not a husband. You have to be stuffed first." "What if I could?" Redrick asked. "Miracles do happen, you know." "I haven't seen miracles like that from you before. How about a drink?" Redrick played with his fork indecisively. dress-up outfit ready. First class. A shirt and tie." Enjoying the sensation of the cool Boor under his clean bare feet, he went into the storeroom and barred the door. He put on a rubber apron and rubber gloves up to his elbows and started unloading the swag on the table. Two empties. A box of pins. Nine batteries. Three bracelets. Some kind of hoop, sort of like the bracelets, but of white metal, lighter, and bigger in diameter by an inch. Sixteen black sprays in a polyethylene case. Two marvelously preserved sponges the size of a fist. Three itchers. A jar of carbonated clay. There was still a heavy porcelain container carefully wrapped in Fiberglass in the bag, but Redrick didn't touch it. He smoked and examined the wealth spread out on the table. Then he opened a drawer and took out a piece of paper, a pencil stump, and a calculator. He kept the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and squinting in the smoke, he wrote number after number, making three columns in all. He added up the first two. The numbers were impressive. He put out the butt in an ashtray and carefully opened the box and spilled out the pins on the paper. In the electric light the pins looked slightly blue and occasionally sputtered with other colors--yellow, red, and green. He picked up a pin and carefully squeezed it between his thumb and index finger, avoiding being pricked. Then he put out the light and waited a bit, getting accustomed to the dark. But the pin was silent. He put it aside and found another one, which he also squeezed. Nothing. He squeezed harder, risking a pinprick, and the pin spoke: weak red Bashes ran along the pin and were suddenly replaced by slower green pulses. Redrick enjoyed this strange light |
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