"L. Sprague De Camp - Lest Darkness Fall" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Camp L Sprague)

tried again, speaking very slowly. The man repeated that he did not understand.
Padway fumbled for his date-book and pencil. He wrote his request on a page of the date-book,
and held the thing up.
The man peered at it, moving his lips. His face cleared. "Oh, you want to know the date?" said he.
"Sic, the date."
The man rattled a long sentence at him. It might as well have been in Trabresh. Padway waved
his hands despairingly, crying, "Lento!"
The man backed up and started over. "I said I understood you, and I thought it was October 9th,
but I wasn't sure because I couldn't remember whether my mother's wedding anniversary came
three days ago or four."
"What year?"
"What year?"
"Sic, what year?"
"Twelve eighty-eight Anno Urbis Conditae."
It was Padway's turn to be puzzled. "Please, what is that in the Christian era?"
"You mean, how many years since the birth of Christ?"
"Hoc ille-that's right."
"Well, now-I don't know; five hundred and something. Better ask a priest, stranger."
"I will," said Padway. "Thank you."
"It's nothing," said the man, and went about his business. Padway's knees were weak, though the
man hadn't bitten him, and had answered his question in a civil enough manner.
But it sounded as though Padway, who was a peaceable man, had not picked a very peaceable
period.
What was he to do? Well, what would any sensible man do under the circumstances? He'd have
to find a place to sleep and a method of making a living. He was a little startled when he realized
how quickly he had accepted the Tancredi theory as a working hypothesis.
He strolled up an alley to be out of sight and began going through his pockets. The roll of Italian
bank notes would be about as useful as a broken five-cent mousetrap. No, even less; you might
be able to fix a mousetrap. A book of American Express traveler's checks, a Roman street-car
transfer, an Illinois driver's license, a leather case full of keys-all ditto. His pen, pencil, and lighter
would be useful as long as ink, leads, and lighter fuel held out. His pocket knife and his watch
would undoubtedly fetch good prices, but he wanted to hang onto them as long as he could.
He counted the fistful of small change. There were just twenty coins, beginning with four ten-lire
silver cartwheels. They added up to forty-nine lire, eight centesimi, or about five dollars. The silver
and bronze should be exchangeable. As for the nickel fifty-centesimo and twenty-centesimo
pieces, he'd have to see. He started walking again.
He stopped before an establishment that advertised itself as that of S. Dentatus, goldsmith and
money changer. He took a deep breath and went in.
S. Dentatus had a face rather like that of a frog. Padway laid out his change and said: "I ... I
should like to change this into local money, please." As usual he had to repeat the sentence to
make himself understood.
S. Dentatus blinked at the coins. He picked them up, one by one, and scratched at them a little
with a pointed instrument. "Where do these-you-come from?" he finally croaked.
"America."
"Never heard of it."
"It is a long way off."
"Hm-m-m. What are these made of? Tin?" The money changer indicated the four nickel coins.
"Nickel."
"What's that? Some funny metal they have in your country?"
"Hoc ille."