"Baker,_Kage_-_Pueblo,_Colorado_Has_the_Answers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Baker Kage)

"No it ain't, because there's no holes under the fence and no tracks. At first I thought it was those God-damned kids, because I caught somebody looking in my window, but then the glowing started."
"Glowing?" She looked up again.
"I don't know, maybe it's phosphorus or something. Maybe it's something to do with the wilt or whatever's bending the stalks. I look out my window last night and a whole row's shining like it was broad daylight. That ain't normal, is it?"
"It doesn't sound normal." She wondered how to phrase her next question. "Um -- you haven't heard any funny noises, have you? High-pitched whistling or anything?"
"Well, I'll tell you, I couldn't hear it if there was because there's so God-damned much interference on my radio lately. I think they must be running some big machinery over at that Air Force base. It's driving me nuts."
"Okay." She bit her lower lip. "Maybe that's what's doing it, you know, something electromagnetic? I don't think it's a garden pest in this booklet, Mr. Lynch."
"No? Didn't seem like it to me, but the way it was written I couldn't tell anything. Well, you know what? I'm going to write back to Pueblo, Colorado and tell 'em about this. Maybe it's something to do with rocket testing." He dug in his pocket for his wallet. "So I need you to sell me some stamps and a writing tablet. Another box of envelopes, too."
When he had limped out the door with the paper sack that held his purchases, she went straight to the nearest copy of _Paranormal Horizons_ and retired behind the humidor case with it for an hour of uninterrupted reading.
That night she waited until the TV trays had been cleared away and a commercial had interrupted _Jeopardy_ to ask: "Daddy, when Grandpa had the truck farm out behind the dunes before the war ... did he ever mention anything funny happening to the corn?"
"Didn't grow corn." Her father did not look away from the screen. "We grew peas, artichokes, lettuce and cauliflower. No corn."
"Well ... did he ever talk about anything he couldn't explain? Any kind of really strange pests in his fields?"
"No." Mr. Hatta turned his head and the lamplight hit his glasses in such a way that his eyes looked like glowing ovals. He gave a bitter laugh. "Except God-damned G.I.s!"
_Jeopardy _returned and Alex Trebek saved her from another visit to Manzanar. She sighed and went in to wash the dinner dishes.
* * * *
The next Saturday dawned bright and hot, but then the wind shifted and a wall of cold fog rolled in, blanketing the town. Tourists retreated, complaining, to their hotel rooms and discovered they would be charged extra for cable TV. The salt mist beaded on everything. Mr. Lynch's nylon jacket was slick and damp with it when he came in.
"Good morning, Mr. Lynch. How's your garden doing?" she asked. By way of a reply, he laid a thick manila envelope on the top of the humidor.
"Well, they wrote back from Pueblo, Colorado," he told her. "But, you know, I was right -- it _is_ some Army guy who writes this stuff. They sent me a letter and a thing I'm supposed to fill out. Now I just wondered, since I know you went to College and all, if you couldn't explain this in plain English?"
"Okay." She tipped out the contents of the envelope and unfolded the cover letter. Below the superscription and date it began:
_Dear Mr. Lynch,_
_Thank you for your interest in our programs. We received your recent letter describing the unusual problem affecting your Early Golden Wonder Hybrid._
_It is our opinion that your plants may be suffering from a condition known as Australian Anthracnose Sclerotinia, which is uncommon but not unknown in the United States, especially in cool coastal areas adjacent to military bases. However, this diagnosis cannot be confirmed without further information._
_You may be aware that as an honorably discharged member of our Armed Forces, you are entitled to a number of benefits auxiliary to your pension and medical coverage. Pest control is included among these. If you will take the time to complete the enclosed detailed questionnaire and return it in the enclosed postage-paid envelope, we will endeavor to respond within ten (10) working days from the arrival of your reply._
_Sincerely,_
_Lt. John C. Collins_
_Dept. of Agricultural Safety_
"Agricultural Safety?" Marybeth looked over her glasses at Mr. Lynch.
"That's right. People don't know there's government departments where the Army will do things free for them, but it's true, you know." He nodded his head for emphasis. "Now, I got a pen here -- if you wouldn't mind taking a look at the test for me?"
"It's not a test, it's a questionnaire." She unfolded five sheets of closely typed, crudely photocopied paper. She read aloud: "_Please circle either YES or NO after each of the following questions. One. Have any unusual marks appeared on the ground adjacent to the affected plants? These may be fungal blights resembling scorch or burn marks and may be circular in shape, or may appear in a pattern. YES or NO?"_
"Yep, yep, I've had those." Mr. Lynch nodded again.
"Okay." Marybeth took the pen and circled _YES_. "_Two. Have you noticed a continuous high-pitched noise that may or may not be described as trilling, warbling or whistling?"_
There were many more questions of this kind, some of them seemingly repetitive. Mr. Lynch gave his Yes or No answer to each of them and Marybeth circled appropriately, though with a growing sense of unease. Some of the questions really couldn't have any imaginable connection with gardening, and many were of a quite personal nature. They didn't seem to bother Mr. Lynch, however. When the questions had all been answered, Marybeth folded the pages, slipped them into the envelope that had been provided, and sealed it. She stole a quick look at the stamps, half-expecting a franking mark from Langley, Virginia. No; two ordinary stamps celebrating the Lighthouses of America.
"Well, there you go, Mr. Lynch." She gave it to him. "I hope this helps."
"Hey, those guys know what they're doing." He stuck the envelope in _OVERSEAS -- OUT OF TOWN._ He seemed relieved, energized. "You know what? I could go for a Hoffman's Cup o' Gold. You restock those yet?"
When he had gone she roamed unhappily up and down the aisles, straightening the magazines on doll collecting, on guns and ammo, on Victorian furniture. Finally she drifted over to the paperback kiosks, and spent a long while perusing them. She found the latest title by Whitley Streiber. She took it back to the humidor cabinet and barely looked up from it the rest of the afternoon.
* * * *
"Some old guy's got a package," grunted the mail carrier, sliding it across the counter at her. Surf was up and he was anxious to be done with his route for the day.
Marybeth examined it and saw Mr. Lynch's name. "He wasn't home?"
"Nah. I knocked. Left the sticker on his door so he can pick it up here." The carrier crossed the green linoleum with rapid steps and was out again in the sunlight, in the fresh salt air. Marybeth leaned down and turned the box slowly. It was just big enough to contain a head of lettuce, perhaps, or a jar of candy. It didn't weigh much, nor did it rattle. She looked for a return address. There it was: a Post Office Box in Pueblo, Colorado. She gnawed her lower lip, wondering why Mr. Lynch hadn't answered the mail carrier's knock.
But he limped in an hour later, face alight with anticipation. "My trap here yet?" he wanted to know.
"Is that what it is?" Marybeth reached under the counter and brought it out for him.
"Uh-huh. Got a letter the other day from Pueblo, Colorado saying they were sending it separate." He thrust the yellow delivery slip at her. "Here. Where do I sign for it?"
"Right there. Did they say if they'd figured out what the problem is?"
"Well, as near as I can make out they _think_ it's that thing they said in the other letter, and they think it's carried by some kind of -- I don't remember what they said it was, bugs or spores or something. One of them Latin names. Anyhow, here's this trap or repellent or whatever it is for me to try on 'em, absolutely free. You have to have an FCC license for it, but they said they'd waive that since I'm a Veteran of Foreign Wars." He completed his wandering signature with effort. "Don't tell _me_ this government don't take care of its servicemen!"
"You mean it's electronic?" Marybeth frowned.
"I guess so. They sent instructions with it." He hefted the box and limped toward the door. "I'll let you know how it works!"
"Okay. Good luck, Mr. Lynch," she called after him, craning her head to watch his shadow limp away after him down the sidewalk.
* * * *
There were gulls circling in the air outside, wheeling and crying, and their shadows danced over the street. An old car pulled up and parked under the swirling cloud of wings, a 1956 BelAir, black and pink, beautifully restored. She nodded in appreciation. A child came in through the doorway, silhouetted against the light, and moved down the aisle toward her. She pulled her attention away from the car and looked down into her own eyes. _Mommie, can I have a U-No Bar?_
Blue school uniform, white Peter Pan collar, saddle oxfords, yes, and there was the pink Barbie purse that had been stolen from her desk in third grade. She heard her mother's voice answering: _You know what your father said about candy. Here, have some raisins._
Just as the child began to pout, it vanished. She jumped to her feet, staring. The car was gone, too. She felt an urge to make the Sign of the Cross. But here came Mr. Lynch, limping in haste, and he looked out of breath and upset. She drew on years of Customer Service sangfroid and inquired: "Is anything the matter, Mr. Lynch?"