"Harrison, Harry - Make Room! Make Room! (Soylent Green) 3.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

Andy opened the small refrigerator that squatted against the wall and quickly
took out the plastic container of margarine, then squeezed two ice cubes from
the tray into a glass and slammed the door. He filled the glass with water from
the wall tank and put it on the table next to the margarine. "Have you eaten
yet?" he asked.
"I'll join you, these things should be charged by now."
Sol stopped pedaling and the whine died away to a moan, then vanished. He
disconnected the wires from the electrical generator that was geared to the rear
axle of the bike, and carefully coiled them up next to the four black automobile
storage batteries that were racked on top of the refrigerator. Then, after
wiping his hands on his soiled towel sarong, he pulled out one of the bucket
seats salvaged from an ancient 1975 Ford, and sat down across the table from
Andy.
"I heard the six o'clock news," he said. "The Eldsters are organizing another
protest march today on relief headquarters. That's where you'll see coronaries!"
"I won't, thank God, I'm not on until four and Union Square isn't in our
precinct." He opened the breadbox and took out one of the six-inch-square red
crackers, then pushed the box over to Sol. He spread margarine thinly on it and
took a bite, wrinkling his nose as he chewed. "I think this margarine has
turned."
"How can you tell?" Sol grunted, biting into one of the dry crackers. "Anything
made from motor oil and whale blubber is turned to begin with."
"Now you begin to sound like a naturist," Andy said, washing his cracker down
with cold water. "There's hardly any flavor at all to the fats made from
petrochemicals and you know there aren't any whales left so they can't use
blubberЧit's just good chlorella oil."
"Whales, plankton, herring oil, it's all the same. Tastes fishy. I'll take mine
dry so I don't grow no fins." There was a sudden staccato rapping on the door
and he groaned. "Not yet eight o'clock and already they are after you."
"It could be anything," Andy said, starting for the door.
"It could be but it's not, that's the callboy's knock and you know it as well as
I do and I bet you dollars to doughnuts that's just who it is. See?" He nodded
with gloomy satisfaction when Andy unlocked the door and they saw the skinny,
bare-legged messenger standing in the dark hall.
"What do you want, Woody?" Andy asked.
"I don' wan' no-fin," Woody lisped over his bare gums. Though he was in his
early twenties he didn't have a tooth in his head. "Lieutenan' says bring, I
bring." He handed Andy the message board with his name written on the outside.
Andy turned toward the light and opened it, reading the lieutenant's spiky
scrawl on the slate, then took the chalk and scribbled his initials after it and
returned it to the messenger. He closed the door behind him and went back to
finish his breakfast, frowning in thought.
"Don't look at me that way," Sol said, "I didn't send the message. Am I wrong in
guessing it's not the most pleasant of news?"
"It's the Eldsters, they're jamming the Square already and the precinct needs
reinforcements."
"But why you? This sounds like a job for the harness bulls."
"Harness bulls! Where do you get that medieval slang? Of course they need
patrolmen for the crowd, but there have to be detectives there to spot known
agitators, pickpockets, purse-grabbers and the rest. It'll be murder in that