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

That's what I was afraid of. I shook my head. "We've got to go, honey. We can come back tomorrow."
At low tide, I added to myself.

When we got back to the cottage, Betsy and Sadie were there. It seemed that Aunt Emma, thank
goodness, hadn't been home, but the other three had been. Amy bragged about her fish, and I listened to
the family news my wife had managed to remember. I didn't tell her about wild Roachsters sinking boats
and mangling divers. I kept to myself my vision of Archie rolling out of the sea to grab our younger
daughter. I did tell her about Clem and Alf--she had met them years before--and their "antique" lobster
traps.

That reminded Amy to look at her sister and say: "And guess what? Daddy got me a whole bag of
Potster Chips!"

Sadie ignored the taunt. Betsy gave me a dirty look, as if to say, "Junk food!" I went to the kitchen for a
beer.
The next morning, I checked the tide table in the paper. The first low tide would be a little before ten. I
figured that if we got down to the wharf by 9:30, Amy could fish till lunchtime and maybe even catch
some fish. A rising tide was always best.

When we arrived, Ben Harms the Elder was there to sell us more bait, and Clem and Alf were already in
place. They looked as if they had been on their bench, decrepit lobster traps between their legs, at least
since dawn, and perhaps they had. Coastal folk tend to rise early.

Alf started our conversation: "Them genetic engineers don't know everything. Can't even keep a car in its
garage." He spat into the harbor.

I didn't believe he had forgotten my profession. Every time a new product hit the market, the local paper
called me up. It found me preferable to a university geneticist, for I _was_ a local boy, even though I
didn't live here anymore.

I watched my daughter as I groped for a riposte. Her rod tip was twitching already, though the tide was
slack. She reeled in, and I could see a small crab clinging to her hook. I said, "Lobstermen don't seem
much better, getting scared off by an overgrown lobster."

Clem laughed.

I shook my head and added, "My own's out there somewhere."

"Forget it," said Alf. "They only run off when they're ready to molt."

"That shucks the plates," said Clem. As well as the lights and interior and all the rest, I reminded myself.
Generally, Roachsters that were growing too tight in their shells--the owner could tell by their increasing
sluggishness--went back to the dealer. In the shop, a hormone injection triggered the molt. As soon as
the new shell had hardened, the dealer reinstalled the bumpers, lights, controls, doors, windows, and
upholstery. Archie had gone through the process three times, each time coming home a little larger. He
should have done it at least twice more before we had to trade him in on a trimmer model. Then
depending on his condition and the demands of the market, he would be converted into a light truck, put
out to stud on the company's ranch, or turned into pet food.