"Christopher Priest - The Discharge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Priest Christopher)

the army so I followed it with immense care, taking cover at the first sign of any approaching traffic. I
continued to travel by night, sleeping as I could by day.

I was in poor physical condition by the time I reached one of the military ports. Although I had been able
to find water I had eaten no food for four days. I was in every way exhausted and ready to turn myself
in.

Close to the harbor, in a narrow, unlit street, not at the first attempt but after several hours of risky
searching, I found the building I was seeking. I reached the brothel not long before dawn, when business
was slow and most of the whores were sleeping. They took me in, they immediately understood the
gravity of my situation. They relieved me of all my army money.



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I remained hidden in the whorehouse for three days, regaining my strength. They gave me civilian clothes
to wearтАФrather raffish, I thought, but I had no experience of the civilian world. I did not wonder how the
women had come by them, or who else's clothes they might once have been. In the long hours I was
alone in my tiny borrowed room I would repeatedly try on my new clothes and hold a mirror at
arm's-length, admiring what I could see of myself in the limited compass of the glass. To be rid of the
army fatigues at last, the thick, coarse fabric, the heavy webbing and the cumbersome patches of body
armor, was like freedom in itself.

Whores visited me nightly, taking turns.

Early in the fourth night, the war's millennial night, four of the whores, together with their male minder,
took me down to the harbor. They rowed me a distance out to sea, where a motor-launch was waiting in
the darkly heaving waters beyond the headland. There were no lights on the boat, but in the glow from
the town I could see that there were already several other men aboard the launch. They too were rakishly
dressed, with frilled shirts, slouching hats, golden bracelets, velveteen jackets. They rested their elbows
on the rail and stared down towards the water with waiting eyes. None of them looked at me, or at each
other. There were no greetings, no recognitions. Money changed hands, from the whores in my boat to
two agile young men in dark clothes in the other. I was allowed to board.

I squeezed into a position on the deck between other men, grateful for the warmth of the pressure against
me. The rowing boat slipped away into the dark. I stared after it, regretting I could not remain with those
young harlots. I was reminiscing already about their lithe, overworked bodies, their careless, eager skills.

The launch waited in its silent position for the rest of the night, the crew taking on board more men at
intervals, making them find somewhere to squeeze themselves, handling the money. We remained silent,
staring at the deck, waiting to leave. I dozed for a while, but every time more people came aboard we
had to shift around to make room.

They lifted the anchor before dawn and turned the boat out to sea. We were heavily loaded and running
low in the water. Once we were away from the shelter of the headland we made heavy weather in the
running swell, the bow of the launch crashing cumbersomely into the walls of the waves, taking on water
with every lurching recovery. I was soon soaked through, hungry, frightened, exhausted, and desperate