The Dead Mountaineer's Inn by Arkady Strugatsky Read Free Book Online Page B

in the most serious possible manner, on the identity of Mr. Moses.
    â€œWell, all right, then,” I said. “A dead end. And what is someone like Mr. Du Barnstoker doing at this dead end?”
    â€œOh, Mr. Du Barnstoker—he’s another matter altogether. He’s been visiting me every year now for thirteen years. The first time he came, the inn was still known as ‘The Shack.’ He’s crazy for my liqueur. Mr. Moses, on the other hand, appears to be constantly drunk—but he hasn’t asked me for a single bottle.”
    I grunted significantly and took a large sip.
    â€œAn inventor,” the owner said decisively. “An inventor, or a magician.”
    â€œYou believe that there are such things as magicians, Mr. Snevar?”
    â€œPlease, call me Alek. Plain Alek.”
    I picked up my glass and toasted Alek with another long swallow.
    â€œIn that case, call me Peter,” I said.
    The owner nodded solemnly and took a generous sip in Peter’s honor.
    â€œDo I believe in magicians?” he said. “I believe in anythingthat I can imagine, Peter. In wizards, in almighty God, in the devil, in ghosts, in flying saucers. If the human brain is capable of imagining something, then that means it must exist somewhere—otherwise why would the brain be capable of imagining it?”
    â€œYou’re a philosopher, Alek.”
    â€œYes, Peter, I’m a philosopher. I’m a poet, a philosopher, a mechanic. Have you seen my perpetual motion machines?”
    â€œNo. Do they work?”
    â€œSometimes. A lot of the time I have to stop them, their parts wear out way too fast … Kaisa!” he yelled, so suddenly that I was startled. “Another glass of hot port for Mr. Inspector!”
    The St. Bernard came in, sniffed us, gazed skeptically at the fire, retreated to the wall and fell on the floor with a thud.
    â€œLel!” the host said. “Sometimes I envy that dog. He sees and hears a lot—quite a lot—as he wanders the halls at night. He could probably tell us quite a story, if he was capable of doing it. And if he wanted to, of course.”
    Kaisa appeared, looking very flushed and slightly disheveled. She handed me the glass of port, curtsied, giggled and left.
    â€œWhat a little dumpling,” I muttered mechanically. After all, I was on my third glass. The owner laughed good-naturedly.
    â€œShe’s irresistible,” he confessed. “Even Mr. Du Barnstoker couldn’t restrain himself. He pinched her bottom yesterday. And the reaction she gets from our physicist …”
    â€œIn my opinion, our physicist has his eye primarily on Mrs. Moses,” I said.
    â€œMrs. Moses …” the host said thoughtfully. “You know, Peter, I have good reason to suspect that she is neither a Mrs. nor a Moses.”
    I didn’t object to this. Who cares, anyway …
    The owner continued. “No doubt you’ve already noticed that she is significantly dumber than Kaisa. Not to mention the fact that”—he lowered his voice—“Moses beats her. In my opinion.”
    I shuddered.
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘beats?”
    â€œIn my opinion, he uses a whip. Moses has a whip. A quirt. As soon as I saw it I thought, ‘Now why would Moses need a quirt?’ Can you answer that one for me?”
    â€œBut Alek …” I said.
    â€œI’m not prying,” the owner said. “I never pry, about anything. As for Mr. Moses, you brought him up—I would never have allowed myself to bring up that particular subject. I was speaking of our illustrious physicist.”
    â€œAll right,” I agreed. “Let’s talk about the illustrious physicist.”
    â€œThis is the third or fourth time he’s stayed with me,” the owner said. “Each time he visits, he’s more illustrious.”
    â€œWait,” I said. “Who are we actually talking