“Found between the pages of a book published in the century before last,” Wayne explained and carefully hid the photograph. - Someone from my ancestors once received this picture as a postcard. A year later, I happened to visit Terra Nova. Now listen carefully. The museum still exists, but the local staff say that they never had such an exhibit at all. The curator of the museum, apparently, considers this postcard to be fake. “Such skeletons are not characteristic of any of the root races of Meng,” he repeated to me.
“It must be a fake postcard, sir,” the bellboy picked up.
“Listen to what happened next,” Wayne went on. - I read all the literature on the colonization of Meng. All reports of expeditions, all the memories of contemporaries. It turns out that two hundred years ago on Menga no one considered the Marrakes a legend. Outwardly, they easily passed for ordinary natives, but were endowed with special power. Owners of the secret transformation of some objects into others. They knew how to influence someone else's psyche if the object was not on guard. Then I studied all export materials for the last two centuries. As well as geological maps compiled by planetary scouts. We managed to find out something. Oddly enough, there are no natural diamonds on Meng.
“Really, sir?” - the bellboy answered excitedly.
- Not a single placer, not a single diamond and not a single place from where they could be mined. Nevertheless, two hundred years ago, Meng annually exported flawless diamonds worth one billion stellers. Where did they, they ask, come from? And why did their flow stop?
“I don't know, sir.”
“They were made by marrakes,” Wayne said sharply. - For businessman Sung and his family. All the Sungs are dead. Since then, Meng has not traded diamonds.
He opened the suitcase, rummaged there and pulled out two objects: a narrow oval bundle wrapped in a stiff fabric made of plant fiber, and a dimly gleaming grayish-black block, the size of which was half his fist.
- Do you know what it is? - asked Wayne, showing the corridor package.
“No sir.”
- In villages, this thing is called air seed. It was buried by an old man in the cellar with a jug. And with that. - He raised a black stone. “Maybe you can say that there is nothing special here?” An ordinary piece of graphite, most likely from an abandoned Badlong mine? But graphite is pure carbon. Just like a diamond.
He lovingly put both objects on the table and wiped his hands - graphite left black spots on them.
“Think carefully,” he advised. “I give you exactly one hour, up to fifteen zero-zero.”
He shook the cigar lightly over the neck of the jug. A few flakes of ash slowly fell onto the thrown back face of the bellboy.
Wayne sat back in his chair. He moved thoughtfully and a little awkwardly, but did not stagger. He removed the foil from the bottle of Ten Stars. He poured a fair portion, threw ice into a glass, and splashed a seltzer. He took a sip.
“Sir,” the bellboy finally said, “you know that I don't know how to make black stone diamonds.” What will happen to me in three hours - after all, this stone will still remain a stone?
“Most likely,” said Wayne, “I will just take the wrapper off the air seed and drop it in the jug.” It is said that in the air such a seed expands, increasing its volume hundreds of times. When it fills the jug to capacity, I will close it with a lid. And on the way to the astroport, when we go along the dam, it will be possible to throw you into the bay. According to rumors, his bottom is a solid mud.
Once again, he slowly drank from a glass.
“Thoughts,” said Wayne, not taking his eyes from his jug of blood.
The jug was dark and cool. The corridor sat comfortably with his legs crossed, and he could also kneel, but then his face was at the very edge of the jug. The hole was smaller than the head of the corridor, and the poor man could neither straighten nor stretch his legs. The corridor was scared, he was sweating. He was barely nineteen years old, and nothing like this had ever happened to him before.
An ice in a glass clinked across the room. The corridor timidly began:
- Sir! ..
The chair springs groaned, and the face of the earthling appeared over the neck of the jug. He had a dimple in his chin. Gray hairs broke out from the nostrils, and several gray and black bristles were visible in the folds of loose skin around the mouth. Little red eyes swam. He stared at the bellboy, not uttering a word.
“Sir,” said the bellboy seriously, “do you know how much I get paid here at the hotel?”
- No.
“Twelve stellers a week, sir.” My grubs. If I could make diamonds, sir, why would I work here?
Not one muscle fluttered on Wayne's face.
- Ask for something harder. Sung had to tinker with you marrakes in order to get his billion stellers of annual income. Once upon a time, there were thousands of you on this continent alone, but now there are so few that you can get lost among the natives. Diamonds have undermined your health. You are on the verge of extinction. And all of you are intimidated. We went underground. You still have the former power, but you are afraid to use it ... as long as there are other ways to keep your secret. Once you were the master of Meng, but now it's much more important for you to stay alive. Of course, all this is just my speculation.
“Of course, sir,” the bellboy confirmed in despair.
The internal telephone rang. Wayne crossed the room and pressed the button, squinting out of the corner of his eye at the bellboy. - Who's talking? He asked in a bored voice.
“Mr. Wayne, ”the duty clerk answered him,“ I dare to ask you a question, have you received your order? ”
“Yes, they brought me a bottle,” Wayne said. - What's the matter?
The corridor listened to the conversation, clenching his fists. Droplets of sweat appeared on his swarthy forehead.
“Yes, actually, in nothing, Mr. Wayne, but the battle did not return. ” And he is always so executive. However, forgive me for bothering you.
“Nothing,” Wayne answered indifferently and turned off the phone.
He again went to the jug, swaying a little and stepping from heel to toe. In one hand he was clutching a glass, and with the other he was fiddling with a miniature osmirridium knife, which hung on a chain from the lapel of his jacket.
After a pause, Wayne asked:
“Why didn't you call for help?”
The corridor did not answer. Wayne insinuatingly continued:
- On the internal phone you would be heard from the opposite end of the room. I know this for sure. So why are you hiding like a mouse?
The corridor whispered:
“If I started screaming, sir, they would have found me in a jug.”
- So what?
The corridor made a grimace.
“Besides you, others believe in marrakes.” And I have to watch out, sir, for the eyes. Everyone will immediately understand that you could only do this to me for one reason.
For a second, Wayne looked at him point blank.
- And you risked suffocating in the air seed and with a stone on your neck to fall into the bay, if only nobody would find you?
“Many years have passed since Meng saw the hunt for marrakes, sir.”
Wayne snorted softly. Glanced at the wall clock.
“Forty minutes,” he muttered, and returned to his chair.
Silence reigned in the room, except for the barely audible ticking of the clock. After a while, Wayne moved to his desk. He inserted the customs declaration form into the typewriter and slowly poked at the keys, cursing over the complex hieroglyphics of interstellar writing.
“Sir,” the corridor called out to him in an even voice, “you know that killing a biped creature does not get away with anyone.” Now you are not a damn old time.
Without looking up from the typewriter, Wayne muttered:
- This is what you think. - He sipped from a glass and set the drink aside.
“Even if they only find out that you have treated disrespectfully with
some elder of a seedy village, sir, and then severe punishment will await you.”
“They won't know,” Wayne assured him. “In any case, not from an elder.”
“Sir, even if I managed to create a diamond for you, they would not have been given more than a few thousand stellers for it.” For a man like you, this is a trifle.
Wayne paused, then half-turned to the bellboy.
“A diamond of pure water and such a weight would be worth all one hundred thousand stellers.” But I'm not going to sell it.
- Is it, sir?
- Imagine this. I will save him. - Wayne closed his eyes; his fingers froze on the keys. Suddenly, with a shudder, he came to his senses, for the last time hit a key and took out a sheet from the typewriter. He took out an envelope and stood up, still looking at the declaration form.
“Just in order to become an owner and admire it from time to time?” Asked the bellboy quietly. Sweat filled his eyes, but he, as before, sat motionless, his fists resting on his knees.
“Exactly,” said Wayne with the same absent look.
He slowly folded the paper and hid it in an envelope, then went to the post office at the door itself. At the last moment he caught on, grabbed a piece of paper from an envelope and reread it. A flush filled his cheeks.
Slowly crushing the paper into a lump, Wayne said:
- You almost did not succeed.
He defiantly folded the leaf in half, tore it up, folded in half the halves, tore it up, repeated this operation again, and again, and then threw the shreds out.
“Just one wrong character,” he remarked, “but that would be enough.” However, I will explain to you what your mistake is, man.
“I don't understand you,” the bellboy said.
“You thought it was worthwhile directing my thoughts to the diamond, and my attention would weaken.” It happened, but I was aware of what was happening. And here you were wrong: I don't give a damn about this diamond!
“What are you talking about, sir?” Asked the bellboy in perplexity.
“For you, the stellor is the new pants.” For me, a stellor or a thousand stellers are only raw materials for concluding deals. I would offer you money, but you yourself explained why not to bribe you: you could make diamonds and swim in money, but you don't dare. That is why I had to act in this way.
“Sir, I don't understand what you're driving at.”
“You know very well.” Now you are becoming dangerous, right? You have been cornered, and time is running out. So you decided to take a chance. - He bent down, picked up and straightened some scrap. - Here, just in the column “Do you swear to abide by the customs of the Archon”, I displayed the hieroglyph “pig”. If I sent this document, in a quarter of an hour the police of thought would come here.
He crumpled a piece of paper into a ball and threw it onto the carpet again.
“Do you suggest that I forget to lift this scrap from the floor?” He inquired good-naturedly. - Well, go ahead.
The corridor swallowed frantically.
“Sir, it's you yourself.” Just a typo.
Wayne smiled at him for the first time and walked away. The corridor rested his back against the wall of the pitcher and that he was pushing himself away from the opposite wall. He tensed so hard that his muscles swelled monstrously. But the clay walls in hardness were not inferior to the rock.
The corridor sweated more than ever. He relaxed his muscles and, breathing heavily, buried his head in his knees, trying to gather his thoughts. The corridor had heard of earthlings who knew no pity, but so far had never seen them with their own eyes. He straightened up.
“Sir, are you still here?”
The chair creaked, and Wayne came up with a glass in his hand.
“Sir,” the bellboy said earnestly, “if I prove to you that I have nothing to do with marrakes, will you let me go?” In my opinion, then I will have to be released, right?
“Well, of course,” Wayne agreed dutifully. - Go ahead, prove.
“Well, sir ... Have you heard nothing more about marraches ... for example, how to distinguish them?”
Wayne seemed to think; he lowered his head, and his eyes twisted with a film.
“That they can and cannot,” suggested the bellboy. “If I explain to you, sir, you will think that I am lying.”
- Wait a minute.
Wayne swayed back and forth, covering his eyes. His tie still did not slip on his side, the striped jacket sat impeccably. Finally Wayne said:
- Yes, I recall something. Marrake hunters took full advantage of this. As far as I remember, marraki do not tolerate alcohol. For them, it's poison.
“Are you sure about this, sir?” Asked the bellboy hotly.
- Of course, I'm sure.
“Well, that's good, sir!”
Wayne nodded and went to the table for a bottle of Ten Stars. She was still two-thirds full. Returning with a bottle, Wayne said:
- Open your mouth.
The corridor opened his mouth wide and squinted. A caustic fluid flashed across the teeth and larynx at the same time: it flowed down the cheeks, and some fell into the nose. The corridor coughed and gasped. He did not see anything - tears blocked his eyes, and the liquid flowed like a fiery stream through the esophagus.
Having caught his breath, the young man barely said:
“Sir! .. Sir, this is unfair. ” You poured into me too much. Give me a little and out of a glass.
“Okay, I want everything to be honest.” Let's try again. - Wayne found an empty glass, poured cognac on two fingers and went to the jug. “Going quietly - you will continue,” he proclaimed and poured the contents of the glass into the corridor's mouth drop by drop.
The corridor swallowed everything, and his head went around from cognac fumes.
“Repeat,” said Wayne and poured another serving.
The corridor drank. In his entrails, the brandy was lumpy, exuding unbearable heat.
- Again.
The corridor drank again.
Wayne settled down. The corridor opened his eyes and looked at him with a blissful look.
“You see, sir?” Not poison at all. I drank and stayed alive!
“Hmmm,” muttered Vane, concerned. - Just think about it! It turns out that marraki can drink alcohol!
A triumphant smile slowly slipped from the corridor's face.
“Please, sir, do not joke with me.”
“If you think these are jokes ...”
“Sir, you promised.”
“Yes, he promised - if you prove to me that you are not marrac.” Proceed, prove. By the way, I can offer you another test. I showed that skeleton to one of my familiar pathologist. He said that the shoulder joints are poorly developed - most likely, the marrac cannot raise a hand above his head. Here you go and explain why you climbed into a chair to remove the bag from the cabinet ... or better yet, stick your hand out of the neck of the jug.
There was a silence. Wayne took out another cigar from the snake-skin green cigar case, cut it off with an osmirridium knife and lit it without taking his eyes off the corridor.
“Now you are becoming dangerous again,” he said with obvious pleasure. - Thinking. The case takes an amusing turn. You are wondering how to kill me, without leaving the jug and not using your power of Marrake. Look at your health. - He leaned on a jug and let out a ring of smoke. “You have fifteen minutes left.”
Wayne slowly rolled up all the blankets, scarves and fabrics, pulled them with straps. He took small things from the dressing table and put them in a bag. He looked around the room, checking to see if he had forgotten something, noticed pieces of paper on the floor and picked up a tiny paper ball, which he himself rolled up from one piece. With a grin he showed this ball to the bellboy, threw it into an ashtray and burned it. Then he comfortably sat in a chair near the door.
“Five minutes,” he said.
“Three minutes,” he said.
- Two minutes.
“Okay,” the bellboy whispered.
- Yes Yes? - Wayne got up and bent over the jug.
- I agree - I will make a diamond.
- Yeah? Vane muttered in a semi-interrogative tone and handed graphite to the corridor.
“I don't have to touch him,” the bellboy said indifferently. - You can put it on the table. This will last no more than a minute.
“Hmm,” muttered Wayne, who was closely following the bellboy. And he crouched in a jug and closed his eyes; Wayne could only see the greenish-black crown.
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