"Farewell Summer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bradbury Ray)

CHAPTER Seventeen

"BLEAK!" QUARTERMAIN BARKED INTO HIS TELE-phone.

"Cal?"

"By God, they got the chess pieces that were sent from Italy the year Lincoln was shot. Shrewd damn idiots! Gome here tonight. We must plan our counterattack. I'll call Gray."

"Gray's busy dying."

"Christ, he's always dying! We'll have to do it ourselves."

"Steady now, Gal. They're just chess pieces."

"It's what they signify, Bleak! This is a full rebellion."

"We'll buy new chess pieces."

"Hell, I might as well be speaking to the dead. Just be here. I'll call Gray and make him put off dying for one more day."

Bleak laughed quietly.

"Why don't we just chuck all those Bolshevik boys into a pot, boil them down to essence of kid?"

"So long, Bleak!"

He rang off and called Gray. The line was busy. He slammed the receiver down, picked it up, and tried again. Listening to the signal, he heard the tapping of tree branches on the window, faintly, far away.

My God, Quartermain thought, I can hear what he's up to. That's dying all right.