"Avram Davidson - Bumberboom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davidson Avram)

"By no means," Mallian said, hastily. "That is... hem. Reflection seems demanded here." He pulled a bit
on his beard and peeped from under his lashes at the pothecary, a small and bony-browed man of no
particular age. There were things which this one was accustomed to doing which Mallian had never done
himself; furthermore, he had said a thing which Mallian wished to hear be said again and at more length.
The more he considered the more he favored the notion. At last cleared his throat and spoke.
"Senior pothecary, is yours a trade which might be swiftly sold for a profit?"
The drugsman looked out the open door in a quick and fearful look. He put his dry lips up to Mallian's
sun-browned ear. "There is no business to be sold for a profit in Elver State," he hissed. "The taxers lurk
like beasts of prey... Why do you ask? There is no business even to be held for a profit. Why, lordling
mine, do you ask? What is stational commerce to you? You pass through, Master, with your giant
thundermaker and you are supplied and you pass on and you pass on. Neither profits nor taxes nor
stocks nor sales are matters you need review... Why do you ask?"
Indeed, the shop did have a decidedly well-taxed look to it and its meager shelves. Mal was fortunate
in having obtained the things he wanted. "The Free Company of Cannoneers-- " he caught the open
mouth, blank look-- "Bumberboom, that is-- " "Oh, aye, Master, Bumberboom." "-- The Free Company
of Cannoneers is in need of the services of a responsible and learned man, versed in such medicines as
history and, for another example, pothecation. And it thus befalls me to wonder-- "
The pothecary genuflected and kissed Mallian's hands and knees. He locked his shop and deposited
the keys with the local chirurgeon. And that night whilst the Crew lay deep in snoring and the Elver
Guards camped disdainfully apart with heads upon saddles, he and the pothecary spoke long and low
together beside a guttering fire, and the coldly indifferent stars pulsed overhead.
"No," said the chemist, whose name was Zembac Pix. "No, Master-Lord, I have made no especial
study of the matter. All of my life, Bumberboom-- or, as some call it, Juggernaut-- has been a byword.
Bad mothers frighten bad children with it. One comes across references to it in chronicles. Whence it first
came, neither do I nor anyone else know. Nor who first devised it. I was a younger man when first I saw
it; most fled in terror or hasted to bring out food, but I tarried as near as I dared. So it was, or so it
seemed, that none but I noticed that these fearsome fellows were little better, if better at all, than idiots.
This one Mog was not then their captain. I know not what he was named, 'twas long ago and my mind
has been crammed overfull ever since of drug receipts and tax-demands. Well, hem a hum. But he was
not quite an idiot; indeed, I think he was a wit wittier than this one. Let us say a moron, then. And off
they trundled, I wondering as they went. Twice more before today have I seen them. And heard of them
more than twice. It has been counted a cause for thanks that, unlike other wandering armsmen, they
never ravished nor rapted away any women. They took no recruits, either.
"The reason for this gensual clannishness, I cannot say. But its results are plain: No fresh genes have
come their way since, aye, hem, who knows when? And whatsoever flaws they had amongst them to
start with, such have been multiplied and squared and cubed, to use the tongue of the medicine called
mathematic. And thus only idiot habit keeps them going and coming and passing to and fro. And only
equally idiot habit keeps the rest of the world afearing them and yielding to them. I cannot say how old
this olden book you've found may be-- a century at least, I venture. It is not by the gun alone, then, nor
by medicine alone, then, that the great noise and destruction comes... No... But by these three
substances, mixed and moisted and dried and cracked and sieved. By my cod and cullions, this is no
small thing you have discovered!"
Mallian spat into the fire. Then he reached out in the dimness and gently took Zembac Pix, the
pothecary, by the throat. "You must remember that pronoun," he said softly. He felt the apple of the
throat bob up and down. "I. Not you. I. Not we. I... Fortunately Mallian son Hazelip is of a trusting
nature." He released his grasp.
"Fortunately..." said Pix, in a tremulous whisper.
"I have great plans. Great needs. I can offer great rewards. You, potionman, may become the
councillor of the councillors of kings. Therefore be exceedingly virtuous. And exceedingly cautious."
He gazed into the other's eyes, glinted by a single dull-red spot of fire-glow in each. And watched