"Grant Naylor - Red Dwarf" - читать интересную книгу автора (Naylor Grant)

got there was still something of a mystery.
The last thing be really remembered with any decent
clarity was celebrating his birthday back on Earth. He, and
six of his very closest friends, decided to usher in his twentyfifth year by
going on a Monopoly board pub-crawl around London. They'd hitched a ride in a
frozen-meat truck from Liverpool, and arrived at lunchtime in the Old Kent
Road. A drink at each of the squares was the plan. They started with hot
toddies to revive them from the ride. In Whitechapel they had pina coladas.
King's Cross station, double vodkas. In Euston Road, pints of Guinness. The
Angel Islington, mezcals. Pentonville Road, bitter laced with rum and
blackcurrant. And so they continued around the board. By the time they'd got
to Oxford Street, only four of them remained. And only two of the four still
had the power of speech.
His last real memory was of telling the others be was going to buy a Monopoly
board, because no one could remember what the next square was, and stepping
out into the cold night air clutching two-thirds of a bottle of sake.
There was a vague, very vague, poorly-lit memory of an advert on the back of a
cab seat; something about cheap space travel on Virgin's new batch of demi-
light-speed zippers. Something about Saturn being in the heart of the solar
system, and businesses were uprooting all the time. Something about it being
nearer than you think, at half the speed of light. Something about two hours
and ten minutes. And then a thick, black, gunky fog.
He'd woken up slumped across a table in a McDonald's burger bar on Mimas,
wearing a lady's pink crimplene hat and a pair of yellow fishing waders, with
no money and a passport in the name of 'Emily Berkenstein'. What was more, he
had a worrying rash.
He was broke, diseased and 793 million miles from Liverpool.
When Lister got drunk, he really got drrrrr-unk.

He brought the hopper to a crunching halt on the corner of hundred-and-fifty-
second and third, outside a garish neon sign promising 'Girls, Girls, Girls'
and 'Sex, Sex, Sex'.
'I understand,' said the man in the navy-blue officer's coat, surreptitiously
re-gluing his moustache, 'there are some excellent restaurants in this area,
offering authentic Mimian cuisine.'
'Look,' said Lister as he short-changed the officer, 'd'you want me to pick
you up?' He really didn't feel like cruising around in the bone-juddering
hopper for another fare. I don't mind waiting.'
The officer glanced down the street at the various pimpy types with poorly-
concealed weaponry under their coats.
'Fine. Wait round the corner.'
'How long will you be?'
'Well, I'm led to believe the Mimian bladderfish is particularly exquisite,
and I would be insane if I didn't at least try the legendary inky squid soup.
Plus, of course, pudding, brandy and cigars. Say... ten minutes? Call it
twenty to be on the safe side.'
Lister took the hopper round the comer, and saw his fare tride purposefully
towards a Mimian restaurant, pause outside, studying the menu, then turn and
walk straight into the building with the neon sign boasting 'Girls, Girls,
Girls' and 'Sex, Sex, Sex.'