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

"The locals? Well, that doesn't interest the locals, of course. They
amuse themselves in other ways."
"And Burbridge?"
"Burbridge? Burbridge ... is like everybody else."
"And you?"
"Me? I'm like everybody else. I watch to see that the girls aren't hurt
... and, well, like everybody else, basically."
"And how long does all this go on?"
"Depends. Three days, sometimes, sometimes a whole week."
"And how much does this pleasure trip cost?" Noonan asked, thinking
about something else entirely. Mosul answered something, but Noonan didn't
hear him. That's the ticket, Noonan thought. Several days, several nights.
Under those conditions, it's simply impossible to keep an eye on Burbridge,
even if you tried. But still he didn't understand. Burbridge was legless,
and there was the gorge. No, there was something else there.
"Which locals are steady customers?"
"Locals? I told you, mostly the young ones. You know, Halevy, Rajba,
Chicken Tsapfa, that Zmyg guy--and the Maltese often goes. A cute little
group. They call it Sunday school. Shall we go to Sunday school, they say.
They concentrate on the old ladies, make pretty good money. Some old broad
from Europe...."
"Sunday school," Noonan repeated.
A strange thought came to him. School. He rose.
"All right," he said. "The hell with the picnics. That's not for us.
But get it straight: Buzzard has swag, and that's our business, pal. Look
for it, Mosul, look for it, or I'll throw you to the dogs. Where does he get
it, who gives it to him? Find out and we'll give twenty percent more than he
does. Got it?"
"Got it, boss." Mosul was standing, too, at attention, loyalty on his
blood-smeared face.
"Move it! Use your brains, you animal!" Noonan shouted and left.
Back at the bar he quickly drank his aperitif, had a chat with Madame
about the decline in morality, hinted that he was planning to expand the
operation, and lowering his voice for emphasis, asked for her advice on what
to do about Benny-the old guy was getting old, he was deaf, his reaction
time was off, and he didn't get along like he used to. It was six already
and he was hungry. A thought was drilling through his brain, out of nowhere
but at the same time explaining a lot. Actually, a lot had become clear by
now anyway and the mystical aura that irritated and frightened him about
this business was gone. All that was left was disappointment in himself be-
cause he had not thought of the possibility earlier. But the most important
thing was the thought that kept floating in his head and giving him no
peace.
He said good-bye to Madame and shook Penny's hand, and headed straight
for the Borscht. The whole trouble is that we don't notice the years
slipping by, Noonan thought. The hell with the years, we don't notice
everything changing. We know that everything changes, we're taught from
childhood that everything changes, and we've seen everything change with our
own eyes many a time, and yet we're totally incapable of recognizing the
moment when the change comes or else we look for the change in the wrong