"Pournelle, Jerry & S M Stirling - Falkenberg 2 - Prince of Mercenaries e-txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pournelle Jerry)

Mark wondered who had copies. It wasn't something you could duplicate without special equipment; the magnetic spots had to be in just the right places. Ewigfeuer would have one, of course. Who else? No use worrying about it.
He inspected his new possessions. Two pairs of shorts. Tee shirts, underwear, socks, all made of some synthetic. Comb, razor and blades. Soap. Used toothbrush. Mark scowled at it, then laughed to himself. No point in being squeamish.
Some of the clothes were dirty. Others seemed clean, but Mark decided he would have to wash them all. Not now, though. He tucked his money into the toe of a sock and threw the rest of his clothes on top of it, then locked the whole works into the locker. He wondered what he should do with the money; he had nearly three hundred credits, ten month's wages at a credit a dayЧenough to be killed for.
It bothered him all the way to the shower, but after that, the unlimited water, new bar of soap, and a good razor were such pleasures that he didn't think about anything else.

VI
The borshite plant resembles an artichoke in appearance: tall, spiky leaves rising from a central crown, with one flowerbearing stalk jutting upward to a height of a meter and a half. It is propagated by bulbs; in spring the previous year's crop is dug up and the delicate bulbs carefully separated, then each replanted. Weeds grow in abundance and must be pulled out by hand. The jungle constantly grows inward to reclaim the high ground that men cultivate. Herbivores eat the crops unless the fields are patrolled.
Mark learned that and more within a week. The work was difficult and the weather was hot, but neither was unbearable. The rumors were true: compared to most places you could be sent, Ewigfeuer's plantation was a country club. Convicts schemed to get there. Ewigfeuer demanded hard work, but he was fair.
That made it all the more depressing for Mark. If this was the easy way to do time, what horrors waited if he made a mistake? Ewigfeuer held transfer as his ultimate threat, and Mark found himself looking for ways to keep his master pleased. He disgusted himselfЧbut there was nothing else to do.
He had never been more alone. He had nothing in common with the other men. His jokes were never funny. He had no interest in their stories. He learned to play poker so well that he was resented when he played. They didn't want a tight player who could take their money. Once he was accused of cheating and although everyone knew he hadn't, he was beaten and his winnings taken. After that he avoided the games.
The work occupied only his hands, not his mind. There were no veedisk readers in the barracks. A few convicts had small radios but the only station they could tune in played nothing but sad country western music. Mark shuddered at the thought of getting to like it.
There was little to do but brood. I wanted power, he thought. We were playing at it. A game. But the police weren't playing, and now I've become a slave. When I get back, I'll know more of how this game is played. I'll show them.
But he knew he wouldn't, not really. He was learning nothing here.
Some of the convicts spent their entire days and nights stoned into tranquility. Borshite plants were the source of borloi, and half the Citizens of the United States depended on borloi to get through each day; the government supplied it to them, and any government that failed in the shipments would not last long. It worked as well on Tanith, and Herr Ewigfeuer was generous with both pipes and borloi. You could be stoned for half a credit a day. Mark tried that route, but he did not like what it did to him. They were stealing three years of his life, but he wouldn't cooperate and make it easier.
His college friends had talked a lot about the dignity of labor. Mark didn't find it dignified at all. Why not get stoned and stay that way? What am I doing that's important? Why not go out of being and get it over? Let the routine wash over me, drown in itЧ
There were frequent fights. They had rules. If a man got hurt so that he couldn't work, both he and the man he fought with had to make up the lost work time. It tended to keep the injuries down and discouraged broken bones. Whenever there was a fight, everyone turned out to watch.
It gave Mark time to himself. He didn't like being alone, but he didn't like watching fights, especially since he might be drawn into one himselfЧ
The men shouted encouragement to the fighters. Mark lay on his bunk. He had liquor but didn't want to drink. He kept thinking about taking a drink, just one, it will help me get to sleepЧand you know what you're doing to yourselfЧand why not?
* * *
The man was small and elderly. Mark knew he lived in quarters near the big house. He came into the bunkie and glanced around. The lights had not been turned on, and he failed to see Mark. He looked furtively about again, then stooped to try locker lids, looking for one that was open. He reached Mark's locker, opened it, and felt inside. His hand found cigarettes and the bottleЧ
He felt or heard Mark and looked up. "Uh, good evening."
"Good evening." The man seemed cool enough, although he risked the usual punishments men mete out to thieves in barracks.
"Are you bent on calling your mates?" The watery eyes darted around looking for an escape. "I don't seem to have any defense."
"If you did have one, what would it be?"
"When you are as old as I am and in for life, you take what you can. I am an alcoholic, and I steal to buy drink."
"Why not smoke borloi?"
"It does little for me." The old man's hands were shaking. He looked lovingly at the bottle of gin that he'd taken from Mark's locker.
"Oh, hell, have a drink," Mark said.
"Thank you." He drank eagerly, in gulps.
Mark retrieved his bottle. "I don't see you in the fields."
"No. I work with the accounts. Herr Ewigfeuer has been kind enough to keep me, but not so kind as to pay enough toЧ"
"If you will keep the work records, you could sell favors."
"Certainly. For a time. Until I was caught. And then what? It is not much of a life that I have, but I want to keep it." He stood for a moment. "Surprising, isn't it? But I do."
"You talk rather strangely," Mark said.
"The stigmata of education. You see Richard Henry Tappinger, Ph.D., generally called Taps. Formerly holder of the Bates Chair of History and Sociology at Yale University."
"And why are you on Tanith?" Prisoners do not ask that question, but Mark could do as he liked. He held the man's life in his hands: a word, a call, and the others would amuse themselves with Tappinger. And why don't I call them? Mark shuddered at the notion, but it didn't quite leave his consciousness.
Tappinger didn't seem annoyed. "Liquor, young girls, their lovers, and an old fool are an explosive combination. You don't mind if I am more specific? I spend a good part of my life being ashamed of myself. Could I have another drink?"
"I suppose."
"You have the stigmata about you as well. You were a student?"
"Not for long."
"But worthy of education. And generous as well. Your name is Fuller. I have the records, and I recall your case."
The fight outside ground to a close, and the men came back into the barracks. Lewis was carrying an unconscious man to the showers. He handed him over to others when he saw Tappinger.
"You sneaky bastard, I told you what'd happen if I found you in my bunkie! What'd he steal, Fuller?"
"Nothing. I gave him a drink."
"Yeah? Well, keep him out of here. You want to talk to him, you do it outside."
"Right." Mark took his bottle and followed Tappinger out. It was hot inside and the men were talking about the fight. Mark followed Tappinger across the quad. They stayed away from the women's barracks. Mark had no friends in there and couldn't afford any other kind of visitЧat least not very often, and he was always disturbed afterwards. None of the women seemed attractive or to care about themselves.
"So. The two outcasts gather together," Tappinger said. "Two pink monkeys among the browns."
"Maybe I should resent that."
"Why? Do you have much in common with them? Or do you resent the implication that you have more in common with me?"
"I don't know. I don't know anything. I'm just passing time. Waiting until this is over."