"Peter Watts - Bulk Food" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watts Peter)

Doug squints at the label. "L'il Ahab Miniature Harpoon Kit.
Rubber Tipped. Ages six and up."
"Everyone wants to prove that they're better shots than our
guests." Finch chuckles. "I suspect a lot of family dogs may be
discomfited tonight. I thought your children might enjoyтАФ"
"I don't have kids," Doug says. "But I have a dog." He takes
the package. "What else?"
Finch holds out the wooden box. "I was able to locate some
nice harbor sealтАФ"
Finch the False Prophet. Finch the Betrayer.
"Harbor seal? Harbor seal! Your gift shop is lousy with harbor
seal! It was marked down! My in-laws are coming over this
weekend and you want me to feed them harbor seal? Why don't I
just give them baloney sandwiches! My dog won't eat harbor
seal!"
Finch shakes his head. He seems more saddened than offended.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Largha. I'm afraid there's nothing
else we can do for you."
Doug wobbles dangerously on his good leg. "I was injured! In
your aquarium! I'll sue!"
"If you were injured, Mr. Largha, you were injured en route
from somewhere that you weren't legally supposed to be in the first
place. Now, pleaseтАж" Finch opens the door a bit wider, just in
case Doug hasn't got the point.
Bulk Food 21

"Not supposed to be in! That was a fire exit route! Which, by
the way," Doug's voice is becalmed by a sudden sense of
impending victory, "was improperly signed."
Finch blinks. "ImproperlyтАФ"
"You can barely see that exit sign," Doug says. "It's buried way
down in one of those stupid orca family trees. If there was ever a
fire, nobody would even find it. I mean, who stops to read award-
winning educational displays when their pants are on fire?"
"Mr. Largha, the viewing gallery is solid cement on one side
and a million gallons of seawater on the other. The odds of a fire
are so minusculeтАФ"
"We'll see whether the fire marshal's office thinks so. We'll see
whether the News at Six Consumer Advocate thinks so!" Doug
triumphantly folds his arms.
There is a moment of silence. Finally, Finch sighs and closes
the door. "I'm really going to have to put my foot down with the
art department about that. I mean, aesthetics or no aestheticsтАж"
"I want my orca steaks," Doug says.
Finch walks to the wall behind his desk. A touch on a hidden
control and a section of paneling slides away. Behind it, cigar
boxes sit neatly arranged on grillwork shelves, lit by the
unmistakable glow of a refrigerator lightbulb.
Finch turns around, one of the boxes open in his hands. Doug
falls silent, disbelieving. It's not cigars in those boxes