"Gordon R. Dickson - Alien Art" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dickson Gordon R)

If the man by the window could manage to stay alive until he was the age
of Lige, he would live to see this Arcadia of his with the greater part
of its natural resources plundered or destroyed, its atmosphere
polluted, its native vegetation and wildlife killed off-all as the price
of becoming, at best, a third-class industrial world.

For a moment the finger of temptation touched Lige. He was getting old,
and he had never made that lucky find, that rare discovery those in his
line of work always dreamed of stumbling upon, someday. It might be
there was some truth to what the woodie said. It might be that the
million-in-one chance was fact; that somewhere up-country, and soon to
be lost forever on a world determined to go industrial, was a talent
such as the field of art had not seen before-a talent that could make
its own name, and Lige's as well, if Lige could discover it. But to hope
for it was a foolish gamble. . . . Lige made up his mind. He spoke.

"Mister Longan."

Cary turned swiftly.

"Mister. . . ." His voice slowed at the expression on the other man's
face. "Something not right?"

"I'm sorry," Lige said. "I can't buy these things."

Cary stared.

"But they're carvings," he said, "and you buy carvings, mister! The ad
said so. Your letter said so-your letter I got right here. . . ." v

He began to fumble inside his leather jacket.

"Sorry, no," said Lige. "Never mind the letter. I know what I said. But
I don't just buy anything that's been carved. I buy art. Do you
understand?"

Cary stopped searching under his jacket and let his hand fall helplessly
to his side.

"Art. . . ." he echoed.

"That's right. And these aren't art," Lige said. "I'm sorry. But if
anyone told you they were, he was playing a trick on you, or your
friend-what's his name? Charlie. . . ."

"Charlie. Well, that's what I call him. But, mister-"

"There's no art here," said Lige, firmly. "I buy art pieces to sell them
to other people. Other people wouldn't buy these . . . pieces of yours
and Charlie's. Maybe you can see them as representations of something;