Стивен Кинг, «Мистер Мерседес», трилогия

Первая книга детективного романа Стивена Кинга начинается с описания ужасного преступления — на городской ярмарке вакансий большой мерседес въезжает в толпу людей, стоявших в очереди для получения работы. Расследование ведет детектив Билл Ходжес, но виновного не находят и детектив уходит на пенсию спустя пару лет с грузом ответственности за нераскрытое страшное преступление.
Интерес к жизни у старого детектива потерян, с женой в разводе, дочь давно выросла, он пьет, ест бургеры, толстеет и смотрит унылые телешоу.

Но однажды ему на почту приходит загадочное письмо, из которого следует, что пишет ему тот самый водитель страшного мерседеса, а также, что ему достаточно много известно о настоящей жалкой жизни старого копа. И Билл Ходжес принимается за расследование.

Первой особенностью романа является то, что изначально читатель знает, кто совершил преступление и суть сводится к тому, каким образом отставному детективу удастся докопаться до правды, а преступнику навредить еще больше и уйти от наказания.
Вторая особенность — в первой и второй книге абсолютно нет никакой мистики, так свойственной великому (без преувеличения) Кингу, перед нами стопроцентный детективный роман.
Произведение захватывает с первых страниц. Стивен Кинг — настоящий мастер по части описания эмоций и мыслей преступников и прочих сумасшедших личностей, ловко маневрирует во времени, сводя пути далеко второстепенных героев, выводя их на первый план. Все три книги мастерски и ненавязчиво связаны в одну большую историю без тупиковых ответвлений сюжета, читая которые ты действительно погружаешься целиком и полностью в мир Билла Ходжеса и Брейди Хартсфилда.
Резюме — захватывающе, интересно, качественно.

«Вторая особенность — в первой и второй книге абсолютно нет никакой мистики, так свойственной великому»

Два замечания.

1. У Кинга много где нет мистики. Побег из Шоушенка, Игра Джеральда, Способный ученик, Бегущий человек, Счастливый брак…
2. Во второй книге мистика есть. Цитирую: «…включать и выключать воду в ванной, не вставая с места…».

Одно из лучших произведений Кинга, которое абсолютно без мистики — «Труп».
И его экранизация «Останься со мной» — выше всяких похвал.

+ в список к пункту 1: «Девочка, которая любила Тома Гордона»

Урсула К. Ле Гуин «Земноморье»

Один из самых популярных циклов американской писательницы Урсулы Ле Гуин. Состоит из следующих произведений

Земноморье / Earthsea

Рассказы
Слово Освобождения (The Word of Unbinding) [Магическое слово; Освобождающее заклятие; Слово освобождения; Слово свободы] (1964)
Правило имён (The Rule of Names) [Похититель сокровищ; Правила имён; Укравший имя; Закон имён] (1964)
The Daughter of Odren [Дочь Одрена] (2014)

Первая трилогия — Волшебник Земноморья (Earthsea) [The Earthsea Trilogy; Земноморье] Волшебник Земноморья (A Wizard of Earthsea) [Маг Земноморья; Колдун Архипелага; Волшебник с архипелага Эртси] (1968)
Гробницы Атуана (The Tombs of Atuan) [Могилы Атуана] (1970)
На последнем берегу (The Farthest Shore) [На самом дальнем берегу; Самый дальний берег] (1972)

Вторая трилогия — Сказания Земноморья:
Техану. Последнее из сказаний о Земноморье (Tehanu: The Last Book of Earthsea) [Техану. Последняя книга Земноморья] (1990)
Сказания Земноморья (Tales from Earthsea) (2001)
— Предисловие (Foreword)
— Искатель (The Finder) (2001)
— Тёмная Роза и Диамант (Darkrose And Diamond) [Роза и Алмаз] (1999)
— Кости земли (The Bones of the Earth) [Кости земные] (2001)
— На Верхних Болотах (On the High Marsh) (2001)
— Стрекоза (Dragonfly) [Ящерка] (1998)
— Краткое описание Земноморья (A Description of Earthsea) (2001)
На иных ветрах (The Other Wind) (2001)

Эссе
Dreams Must Explain Themselves (1973)
About Tehanu (1991)
Earthsea Revisioned [Children, Women, Men and Dragons] (1990)

Примерная внутренняя хронология цикла:
— Слово Освобождения
— Искатель
— Тёмная Роза и Диамант
— Правило имен
— Кости земли
— Волшебник Земноморья
— Гробницы Атуана
— На Верхних Болотах
— На последнем берегу
— Техану
— Стрекоза
— На иных ветрах

Что читать — февраль-апрель 2018

Из прочитанного в последнее время… Перечитал «Маятник Фуко» Умберто Эко впервые за много лет — не потускнела, все так же гениальная книга. «Lord of Light» Роджера Желязны — фантастика, на удивление понравилась, сильно лучше, чем «Хроники Амбера», читанные в далеком прошлом. «Проповедь о падении Рима» Джерома Феррари — история корсиканской семьи; местами красивая проза, но слишком много галльского интеллектуального выпендрежа, не понравилось. «Ending Medical Reversal» — нон-фикшн о том, как лекарства и процедуры в современной медицине отменяют, когда оказывается, что они на самом деле неэффективны или вредны, и что с этим делать. Много интересного фактического материала, спорные (в хорошем смысле слова) рекомендации. «Impossible Things» Кони Уиллис — сборник рассказов, неровный, но есть два-три очень очень хороших.

Смирнов. Дон Корлеоне и все‑все‑все
Истории про историю Италии за последние лет 100. Написано очень легким нескучным языком. Читается запоем. Прочитал на Лепре, потом заказал книгу.

Тана Френч. Хорошие детективы.

Конечно Урсула Ле Гуин.
«Обездоленные» — прекраснейшее. И «Слово для леса и мира одно»

1Q84, +100500

Анастасия Казанцева. «Кто бы мог подумать» и «В интернете кто-то не прав!». Очень увлекательно, легко написано, прочитал с огромным удовольствием — в общем из серии «аффтор, пиши исчо».

Соня Шах. «Пандемия». Тоже научно-популярная. История эпидемий вообще и холеры в частности. Понравилось.

Александр Панчин. «Апофения». Не понравилось. Как художественная литература — слабо, как памфлет — недостаточно четко и жестко.

Александр Маркин. «Рождение сложности». Интерсно, но не дочитал пока. Требует умственных усилий, которые я сейчас приложит не в состоянии.

Нил Стивенсон. «Семиевие». Не понравилось, блин. Разочарование года. То ли дело в том, что переводила не уважаемая kdm17 (хотя и под ее рукодством), то ли (и скорее всего), сам Стивенсон так написал. Сюжета нет, интриги не, четкости мышления нет, интересных характервов и персонажей нет… в общем, печально.

Джеймс Триптри-младший. Который «она». На фоне новостей о выходе сборника «Счастье — это теплый звездолет» почитал немного старых рассказов и неожиданно очень-очень проникся.
Тетка реально крута. Очень понравилась «Девочка, которую подключили» — несмотря на скверный перевод. Очень бестеровская вещь, энергичная, злая. И все остальное, что читал — очень разное и неплохое.

В процессе поисков книг Триптри-младшего наткнулся на чудесный АСТовский сборник переводов А.Баканова «Жизнь коротка». Большую часть я оттуда читал, но это же такие замечательные вещи… перечитывал, перелистывал… здорово…

Вильгельм Гауф. «Карлик нос». Это я дочке читал. Вот же великолепная сказка. Как и вся хорошая детская литература — очень точна в деталях, психологична. «Харчевню в Шпессарте» начали, но не осилили. Мне-то он в детстве очень нравилась, но я наверное попозже ее читал.

Отфрид Пройслер. «Маленькое приведение», «Маленькая баба-яга», «Маленький водяной». Опять же с дочкой читали. Ей понравилось… А мне в детстве нравилось больше, чем сейчас. Что-то простовато. Вот жалко.

Джеффри Евгенидис. «Девственницы-самоубийцы». Каждый раз чувствую себя неловко, рекомендуя эту книгу. Звучит как «Техасская резня бензопилой» или типа того. А на самом деле удивительная вещь, очень необычная, умная, эмоциональная, юмористическая — черным юморм. Прочитал после того, как случайно посмотрел по телевизору снятый по рассказу Евгенидеса фильма «Больше чем друг».

Чайна Мьевилль. «Вокзал потерянных снов», «Шрам», «Железный совет». «Нон лон дон» уже не осилил. Готика-нуар-фантастика-фэнтези-депрессия… Читать то конечно вроде интересно, но вот не нравится он мне… Мир, в котором соседствуют магия и технология позволяют автору не продумывать подробности ни того, ни другого. Но эмоций много, это да. И умение эти эмоции так извернуть, чтобы получить совершенно нерешаемую комбинацию — это вот тоже запросто. Не люблю я этого. Образное мышление на высоте (хотя ИМХО тот же Бэнкс гораздо круче и разнообразнее). При чтении почему-то постоянно преследует ощущение вторичности.

Перечитываю Infinite Jest. Как всегда, великолепно — но это для нас, гиков. То есть не всем понравится, конечно.

У меня какая-то детективная волна: весь Ю. Несбё, Элизабет Джордж, теперь вот дочитываю Камиллу Лэкберг.

Уистан Хью Оден «Похоронный блюз»

Уистан Хью Оден, «Похоронный блюз»
(перевод avva.livejournal.com)

Часы останови, а телефон разбей.
Собаке кость метни, не время лаять ей.
Рояли зачехли. Пусть под глухую дробь
Выходят люди. И выносят гроб.

Пусть самолёты сквозь натужный стон
На небе чертят надпись: Умер Он.
Пусть креп покроет шеи голубей на площадях,
У постовых пусть будут чёрные перчатки на руках.

Он был мой север, юг, мой запад и восток,
Роман в шести частях, воскресный эпилог.
Мой день и полночь, мой жар и дрожь.
Я верил, что любовь — навечно. Это ложь.

Пройдись и погаси все звёзды по одной.
Луну отправь на склад, и солнце — за луной.
В ночь вылей океан, смети в корзину лес.
Отныне ничего не будет больше здесь.

W.H.Auden, Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Ещё, для сравнения, перевод Иосифа Бродского

Часы останови, забудь про телефон
И бобику дай кость, чтобы не тявкал он.
Накрой чехлом рояль, под барабана дробь
И всхлипыванья пусть теперь выносят гроб.

Пускай аэроплан, свой объясняя вой,
Начертит в небесах «Он мертв» над головой,
И лебедь в бабочку из крепа спрячет грусть,
Регулировщики — в перчатках черных пусть.

Он был мой Север, Юг, мой Запад, мой Восток,
Мой шестидневный труд, мой выходной восторг,
Слова и их мотив, местоимений сплав.
Любви, считал я, нет конца. Я был не прав.

Созвездья погаси и больше не смотри
Вверх. Упакуй луну и солнце разбери,
Слей в чашку океан, лес чисто подмети.
Отныне ничего в них больше не найти.

Что читать. Леонид Андреевич Горбовский

Леонид Андреевич Горбовский — персонаж литературных произведений Аркадия и Бориса Стругацких. Впервые появляется в рассказе «Частные предположения». Позже — один из сквозных героев цикла о Мире Полудня. Действует или упоминается в большинстве составляющих цикла: «Попытка к бегству», «Далёкая Радуга» /один из главных героев/, «Беспокойство», «Полдень, XXII век», «Малыш», «Жук в муравейнике», «Волны гасят ветер».

John le Carré, A Legacy of Spies

John le Carré, A Legacy of Spies
Новый роман 85-летнего ле Карре, завершающий, по-видимому, цикл о Джордже Смайли.
(самый известный и пожалуй лучший роман цикла — «Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy» или «Шпион, выйди вон!» по-русски).

Gene Wolfe, Westwind

Gene Wolfe, Westwind

“. . . to all of you, my dearly loved fellow countrymen. And most
particularly—as ever—to my eyes, Westwind.”

One wall of the steaming, stinking room began to waver, the magic portal that had opened upon a garden of almost inconceivable beauty beginning to mist and change. Fountains of marble waved like grass, and rose trees, whose flowery branches wore strands of pearl and diamond, faded to soft old valentines. The ruler’s chair turned to bronze, then to umber, and the ruler himself, fatherly and cunning, wise and unknowable, underwent a succession of transformations, becoming at first a picture, then a poster, and at last a postage stamp.

The lame old woman who ran the place turned the wall off and several people protested. “You heard what he said,” she told them. “You know your duty. Why do you have to listen to some simpleton from the Department of Truth say everything over in longer words and spread his spittle on it?”

The protestors, having registered their postures, were silent. The old woman looked at the clock behind the tiny bar she served.

“Game in twenty minutes,” she said. “Folks will be coming in then, rain or no rain, wanting drinks. You want some, you better get them now.”

Only two did: hulking, dirty men who might have been of any dishonest trade. A few people were already discussing the coming game. A few others talked about the address they had just heard—not its content, which could not have meant much to most of them, but the ruler and his garden, exchanging at hundredth hand bits of palace gossip of untold age. The door opened and the storm came in and a young man with it.

He was tall and thin. He wore a raincoat that had soaked through and an old felt hat covered with a transparent plastic protection whose elastic had forced the hat’s splayed brim into a tight bell around his head. One side of the young man’s face was a blue scar; the old woman asked him what he wanted.

“You have rooms,” he said.

“Yes, we do. Very cheap too. You ought to wear something over that.”

“If it bothers you,” he said, “don’t look at it.”

“You think I’ve got to rent to you?” She looked around at her customers, lining up support, should the young man with the scar decide to resent her remarks. “All I’ve got to do if you complain is say we’re full. You can walk to the police station then—it’s twenty blocks—and maybe they’ll let you sleep in a cell.”

“I’d like a room and something to eat. What do you have?”

“Ham sandwich,” she said. She named a price. “Your room—” She named another.

“All right,” he said. “I’d like two sandwiches. And coffee.”

“The room is only half if you share with somebody—if you want me to I can yell out and see if anybody wants to split.”

“No.”

She ripped the top from a can of coffee. The handle popped out and the contents began to steam. She gave it to him and said, “I guess they won’t take you in the other places, huh? With that face.”

He turned away from her, sipping his coffee, looking the room over. The door by which he had just entered (water still streamed from his coat and he could feel it in his shoes, sucking and gurgling with his every movement) opened again and a blind girl came in.

He saw that she was blind before he saw anything else about her. She wore black glasses, which on that impenetrable, rain-wracked night would have been clue enough, and as she entered she looked (in the second most terrible and truest sense) at Nothing.

The old woman asked, “Where did you come from?”

“From the terminal,” the girl said. “I walked.” She carried a white cane, which she swung before her as she sidled toward the sound of the old woman.

“I need a place to sleep,” the girl said.

Her voice was clear and sweet and the young man decided that even before the rain had scrubbed her face she hadn’t worn makeup.

He said, “You don’t want to stay here. I’ll call you a cab.”

“I want to stay here,” the girl said in her clear voice. “I have to stay somewhere.”

“I have a communicator,” the young man said. He opened his coat to show it to her—a black box with a speaker, keys, and a tiny screen—then realized that he had made a fool of himself. Someone laughed.

“They’re not running.”

The old woman said, “What’s not running?”

“The cabs. Or the buses. There’s high water in a lot of places all over the city and they’ve been shorting out. I have a communicator too”—the blind girl touched her waist—“and the ruler made a speech just a few minutes ago. I listened to him as I walked and there was a newscast afterward. But I knew anyway because a gentleman tried to call one for me from the terminal, but they wouldn’t come.”

“You shouldn’t stay here,” the young man said.

The old woman said, “I got a room if you want it—the only one left.”

“I want it,” the girl told her.

“You’ve got it. Wait a minute now—I’ve got to fix this fellow some sandwiches.”

Someone swore at the old woman and said that the game was about to start.

“Five minutes yet.” She took a piece of boiled ham from under the counter and put it between two slices of bread, then repeated the process.

The young man said, “These look eatable. Not fancy, but eatable. Would you like to have one?”

I have a little money,” the blind girl said. “I can pay for my own.” And to the old woman: “I would like some coffee.”

“How about a sandwich?”

“I’m too tired to eat.”

The door was opening almost constantly now as people from the surrounding tenements braved the storm and splashed in to watch the game. The old woman turned the wall on and they crowded near it, watching the pregame warm-up, practicing and perfecting the intentness they would use on the game itself. The scarred young man and the blind girl were edged away and found themselves nearest the door in a room now grown very silent save for the sound from the wall.

The young man said, “This is really a bad place—you shouldn’t be here.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I don’t have much money,” he said. “It’s cheap.”

“You don’t have a job?”

“I was hurt in an accident. I’m well now, but they wouldn’t keep me on—they say I would frighten the others. I suppose I would.”

“Isn’t there insurance for that?”

“I wasn’t there long enough to qualify.”

“I see,” she said. She raised her coffee carefully, holding it with both hands. He wanted to tell her that it was about to spill—she did not hold it quite straight—but dared not. Just as it was at the point of running over the edge it found her lips.

“You listened to the ruler,” he said, “while you were walking in the storm. I like that.”

“Did they listen here?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t here. The wall was off when I came in.”

“Everyone should,” she said. “He does his best for us.”

The scarred young man nodded.

“People won’t cooperate,” she said. “Don’t cooperate. Look at the crime problem—everyone complains about it, but it is the people themselves who commit the crimes. He tries to clean the air, the water, all for us—”

“But they burn in the open whenever they think they won’t be caught,” the young man finished for her, “and throw filth in the rivers. The bosses live in luxury because of him, but they cheat on the standards whenever they can. He should destroy them.”

“He loves them,” the girl said simply. “He loves everyone. When we say that, it sounds like we’re saying he loves no one, but that’s not true. He loveseveryone.”

“Yes,” the scarred young man said after a moment, “but he loves Westwind the best. Loving everyone does not exclude loving someone more than others. Tonight he called Westwind ‘my eyes.’ ”

“Westwind observes for him,” the girl said softly, “and reports. Do you think Westwind is someone very important?”

“He is important,” the young man said, “because the ruler listens to him—and after all, it’s next to impossible for anyone else to get an audience. But I think you mean ‘does he look important to us?’ I don’t think so—he’s probably some very obscure person you’ve never heard of.”

“I think you’re right,” she said.

He was finishing his second sandwich and he nodded, then realized that she could not see him. She was pretty, he decided, in a slender way, not too tall, wore no rings. Her nails were unpainted, which made her hands look, to him, like a schoolgirl’s. He remembered watching the girls playing volleyball when he had been in school—how he had ached for them. He said, “You should have stayed in the terminal tonight. I don’t think this is a safe place for you.”

“Do the rooms lock?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen them.”

“If they don’t I’ll put a chair under the knob or something. Move the furniture. At the terminal I tried to sleep on a bench—I didn’t want to walk here through all that rain, believe me. But every time I fell asleep I could feel someone’s hand on me—once I grabbed him, but he pulled away. I’m not very strong.”

“Wasn’t anyone else there?”

“Some men, but they were trying to sleep too—of course it was one of them, and perhaps they were all doing it together. One of them told the others that if they didn’t let me alone he’d kill someone—that was when I left. I was afraid he wasn’t doing it—that somebody would be killed or at least that there would be a fight. He was the one who called about the cab for me. He said he’d pay.”

“I don’t think it was him, then.”

“I don’t either.” The girl was silent for a moment, then said, “I wouldn’t have minded it so much if I hadn’t been so tired.”

“I understand.”

“Would you find the lady and ask her to show me to my room?”

“Maybe we could meet in the morning for breakfast.”

The blind girl smiled, the first time the scarred young man had seen her smile. “That would be nice,” she said.

He went behind the bar and touched the old woman’s arm. “I hate to interrupt the game,” he said, “but the young lady would like to go to her room.”

“I don’t care about the game,” the old woman said. “I just watch it because everybody else does. I’ll get Obie to take care of things.”

“She’s coming,” the scarred young man said to the blind girl. “I’ll go up with you. I’m ready to turn in myself.”

The woman was already motioning for them and they followed her up a narrow staircase filled with foul odors. “They pee in here,” she said. “There’s toilets down at the end of the hall, but they don’t bother to use them.”

“How terrible,” the girl said.

“Yes, it is. But that way they’re getting away with something—they’re putting one over on me because they know if I was to catch them I’d throw them out. I try and catch them, but at the same time I feel sorry for them—it’s pretty bad when the only wins you have left are the games on the wall and cheating an old woman by dirtying her steps.” She paused at the top of the stairs for breath. “You two are going to be just side-by-side—you don’t mind that?”

The girl said, “No,” and the scarred young man shook his head.

“I didn’t think you would and they’re the last I’ve got anyway.”

The scarred young man was looking down the narrow corridor. It was lined with doors, most of them shut.

“I’ll put you closest to the bathroom,” the old woman was saying to the girl. “There’s a hook on the bathroom door, so don’t you worry. But if you stay in there too long somebody’ll start pounding.”

“I’ll be all right,” the girl said.

“Sure you will. Here’s your room.”

The rooms had been parts of much larger rooms once. Now they were subdivided with green-painted partitions of some stuff like heavy cardboard. The old woman went into the girl’s place and turned on the light. “Bed’s here; dresser’s there,” she said. “Washstand in the corner, but you have to bring your water from the bathroom. No bugs—we fumigate twice a year. Clean sheets.”

The girl was feeling the edge of the door. Her fingers found a chain lock and she smiled.

“There’s a dead bolt too,” the scarred young man said.

The old woman said, “Your room’s next door. Come on.”

His room was much like the girl’s, save that the cardboard partition (it had been liberally scratched with obscene words and pictures) was on the left instead of the right. He found that he was acutely aware of her moving behind it, the tap of her stick as she established the positions of the bed, the dresser, the washstand. He locked his door and took off his soaked coat and hung it on a hook, then took off his shoes and stockings. He disliked the thought of walking on the gritty floor in his wet feet, but there was no alternative except the soggy shoes. With his legs folded under him he sat on the bed, then unhooked the communicator from his belt and pushed 555-333-4477, the ruler’s number.

“This is Westwind,” the scarred young man whispered.

The ruler’s face appeared in the screen, tiny and perfect. Again, as he had so often before, the young man felt that this was the ruler’s real size, this tiny, bright figure—he knew it was not true.

“This is Westwind and I’ve got a place to sleep tonight. I haven’t found another job yet, but I met a girl and think she likes me.”

“Exciting news,” the ruler said. He smiled.

The scarred young man smiled too, on his unscarred side. “It’s raining very hard here,” he said. “I think this girl is very loyal to you, sir. The rest of the people here—well, I don’t know. She told me about a man in the terminal who tried to molest her and another man who wanted to protect her. I was going to ask you to reward him and punish the other one, but I’m afraid they were the same man—that he wanted to meet her and this gave him the chance.”

“They are often the same man,” the ruler said. He paused as though lost in thought. “You are all right?”

“If I don’t find something tomorrow I won’t be able to afford to stay, but yes, I’m all right tonight.”

“You are very cheerful, Westwind. I love cheerfulness.”

The good side of the scarred young man’s face blushed. “It’s easy for me,” he said. “I’ve known all my life that I was your spy, your confidant—it’s like

knowing where a treasure is hidden. Often I feel sorry for the others. I hope you’re not too severe with them.”

“I don’t want to aid you openly unless I must,” the ruler said. “But I’ll find ways that aren’t open. Don’t worry.” He winked.

“I know you will, sir.”

“Just don’t pawn your communicator.”

The image was gone, leaving only a blank screen. The young man turned out the light and continued to undress, taking off everything but his shorts. He was lying down on the bed when he heard a thump from the other side of the cardboard partition. The blind girl, feeling her way about the room, must have bumped into it. He was about to call, “Are you hurt?” when he saw that one of the panels, a section perhaps three feet by four, was teetering in its frame. He caught it as it fell and laid it on floor.

The light the old woman had turned on still burned in the girl’s room and he saw that she had hung up her coat and wrapped her hair in a strip of paper towels from the washstand. While he watched she removed her black glasses, set them on the bureau, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. One of her eyes showed only white; the iris of the other was the poisoned blue color of watered milk and turned in and down. Her face was lovely. While he watched she unbuttoned her blouse and hung it up. Then she unhooked her communicator from her belt, ran her fingers over the buttons once, and, without looking, pressed a number.

“This is Westwind,” she said.

He could not hear the voice that answered her, but the face in the screen, small and bright, was the face of the ruler. “I’m all right,” she said. “At first I didn’t think I was going to be able to find a place to stay tonight, but I have. And I’ve met someone.”

The scarred young man lifted the panel back into place as gently as he could and lay down again upon his bed. When he heard the rattle of her cane again he tapped the partition and called, “Breakfast tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t. Good night.”

“Good night,” he said.

In the room below them the old woman was patting her straggling hair into place with one hand while she punched a number with the other. “Hello,” she said, “this is Westwind. I saw you tonight.”

Что читать детям

Декабрь 2017.

Пол Стюарт, Крис Риддел
Пришельцы развлекаются (сборник)

Замечательная и очень веселая книга. По сути это не первая книга про пришельцев с Плюха, но она состоит из отдельных самостоятельных рассказов. К сожалению в аннотации очень редко пишут какой частью цикла является книга. Поэтому я уже не первый раз, беря книгу в библиотеке, начинаю читать цикл с середины.
У авторов есть еще несколько циклов, все из которых стоят вашего внимания.