"Thomas A. Easton - When life hands you a Lemming" - читать интересную книгу автора (Easton Thomas A)

"Ayuh," said Alf. "Ain't nuthin' out there a'tall."

I glanced toward the bait shack. "Young Ben said maybe flounder."

"Nah," said Clem. "No mackerel. No blues. No cod. No flounder."
"Nuthin'," said Alf. His cheek bulged as he worked whatever he was chewing out of the way. His lips
pursed, and he spat a stream of something brown over the side of the wharf.

"Damn good thing," said Clem. "Damn good thing them genetic engineers invented potsters." I looked for
Amy. She had her hook baited and was paying the line over the side of the float. The bag of Potster
Chips lay beside her, colorful in the distance. Potsters were a very successful hybrid of lobster and Maine
potato.

"Saved the potato farmer, they did," said Alf.

"Saved me too."

"I heard about that," said Alf.

"I haven't," I said.

"Well." Clem drove a nail into a slat for the trap he was holding between his knees. "Couple years ago. I
put in a field of peterkins. Seed company swore they'd grow to six-room size, even in Maine. Then I
could slip foundations under 'em and have me a housing development."

I knew about peterkins. They were giant, genetically engineered pumpkins. Once they reached their full
growth, they could be hollowed out, dried, treated with sealants and preservatives, and fitted with doors
and windows. They had made the first real dent in the world-wide need for low-cost housing. General
Bodies, even though it specialized in designer animals, had long envied Burpee for its success.

"But we got an early frost that year. They didn't make much more'n closets."

"Lose your shirt, then?" I asked.

"Nah. Sold 'em to the Porta-Potty folks. But I didn't make much profit, I tell ya. That's why I'm growin'
potsters now."

Steamed potsters had a mushier texture but all the flavor of real lobster meat. Several of my local
relatives grew them in their home gardens, and when we had arrived from Cambridge, we had been
served "lobster" fresh from the garden. I wondered aloud whether anyone bothered to set traps for real
lobsters anymore.

"No point," said Alf. "No fish out there. No lobsters. No clams, even."

"Nuthin'," said Clem.

"Unless you're into sports," said Alf. "Too dangerous."

I could see Amy's rod bend even from my distance. She stood up, yanking at whatever had grabbed her