"Jason Gould - The Seven Wonders Of The Modern World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Jason)

performance.
The central arena was in excess of fifty kilometres wide and over two
hundred long. The viewing area was screened off by a Perspex-type shield
that was reputedly able to withstand shocks from the heaviest artillery.
The land beyond the screen was a churned, mushy battlefield; trenches were
dug at either side, topped by sandbags and barbed wire; spent cartridges,
abandoned weaponry and the occasional booted ankle were in the mud here
and there, uncollected after the last performance. Cordite, like the smell
of something good cooking, wafted beneath my nose.
Over to the left, in the betting quarter, tic-tac men were accepting bets
and transmitting strange semaphore messages to one another. Tonight's
favourites were Team A. The professional punters wore cravats and sipped
sherry, and nodded nonchalantly to their bookies. I wanted to be a
professional punter when I grew up. Or own my own soldiers.
We were shown to the cheap seats, where we watched VIPs, movie stars and
even a member of royalty (who my mother was overwhelmed to spot)
sauntering down the tunnel that led to the chemical warfare auditorium. My
father became jealous and exchanged harsh words with my mother; they were
always bickering about money. A minute later he put his arm round me, and
said, 'Never mind, son. One day we'll afford it.' I didn't see the
attraction myself: betting on who would choke on their own lungs first
didn't sound much fun. Apparently, though, it was the sport of the future.
The MC appeared on our side of the partition and formally welcomed the
audience. I can't recall much of his patter, but my parents laughed and my
mother's eyes sparkled like the glitter on the MC's tux. He finished
cracking jokes, and said: 'Without further ado...'
The lights dimmed, and I watched from the stands.
Troops were cajoled on to the field, literally flung in some cases, about
two hundred in either battalion. Some looked as if they'd escaped from
newsreels or emergency wards: stomachs had been stitched back together,
wounds cauterized, shoulders rejointed; I saw one man whose left leg was
missing from the knee down, and who hopped on to the battlefield, and
crawled when he fell. I believe they envied those comrades who hadn't been
able to prise themselves out of the bloodied sludge when the curtain had
fallen on the previous performance. But I wasn't to let sympathy get a
hold of me; these men and women were those deemed unfit to populate our
streets and cities, and so were there of their own choosing. Before being
moved to the museum they'd been imprisoned for murder or violent crime.
Now, these murderers, if permitted, would drop their guns and grenades and
other tools of the trade and flee, I imagine, and turn their backs on
violence forever. Killing is only fun when it's a hobby, my father had
explained on the way there in the car; when you do it for a living it
loses the pizzazz.
The crowd around me erupted as the fighters went to work. Powerful
microphones located in the trenches fed each shot, explosion and cry into
a bank of speakers that hung over our heads. A large screen at the front
of the audience showed the action from a camera (the head-cam) that was
built into the helmet of an ex-armed robber in Team B. My father had
rented a pair of binoculars and he shared them with my mother. They
bounced in their seats and clapped like toy monkeys whenever a bomb or