Gravity text. Gravity Ustinov read online without registration gravity

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- Higher and higher and higher we strive for the flight of our birds, and in each propeller the calmness of our borders breathes! ..

At the "borders" a bunch of keys fell out of the castle and dropped under the porch. The lock swayed on the shackle.

- What is it! .. - Svetlana Ivanovna, just cheerfully humming under her breath "March of the aviators", marveled at the castle, leaned over the railing and began to fumble with her eyes. There she is, a bunch of something! .. Look, you galloped away! ..

Svetlana Ivanovna came down from the porch - the boards creaked, - picked up the keys, was aiming at the lock and then she only realized that it was open!

... Excuse me, how - on the spot? If the lock is threaded into the hinges and dangles on one shackle? What is it, the director unlocked the door, he moved somewhere, and left the entire library facilities wide open? Did you just cover it with one bow?

Svetlana Ivanovna was agitated, in a hurry, the porch under her was shaking. She unhooked the lock, attached it to its usual place - on the nail on the right side - opened the door. From within, I immediately felt the smell of dust and old books.

- Pyotr Sergeevich, are you here? .. Or where?

Nobody responded.

The librarian had somehow locked the door, trimmed with old leatherette, with a flower pot of geraniums. The door was propped up in the fall with an old cast-iron iron, probably half a pound weight, but in the spring - with a pot of geraniums.

The bad thing started right away. It was as if a paper river flowed under Svetlana Ivanovna's feet. The librarian gasped and clutched a giant oilcloth bag to her chest.

The river consisted of newspapers and magazines, and they were all crumpled, as if trampled, they covered the entire floor in the corridor, so that not even the carpet runway was visible.

- Fathers lights, - Svetlana Ivanovna muttered, and her chin trembled, and her breath was hammered.

In the pocket of her bag, she fumbled for the medicine, squeezed out a tiny red ball and threw it under her tongue.

Walking along the river of paper, she carefully looked into the "subscription" and closed her eyes in horror - everything was upside down here, all the books were pulled out, turned upside down, as if they were beaten and raped. The shelves, without books, like skeletons, have been shifted, even flower pots have been overturned! ..

- Fathers, - Svetlana Ivanovna repeated and thought: it would be nice to faint now, but she did not know how to faint.

The body of a man lying on the floor behind a table with drawers pulled out and gutted did not seem so scary to her.

It should have lie there and it lay.

- Pyotr Sergeevich, - Svetlana Ivanovna called and bent over the body. - Petya! .. What's the matter with you? Why did you lie down here?

It was quite obvious that the director of the library would never be able to answer her, that this was not even the director, but what was left of him - an empty shell, no longer needed and not too much like a director and similar! ..

Svetlana Ivanovna made an awkward convulsive movement, and from her giant bag, pens, a wallet, a stupid mirror with a picture on the lid, eye drops, a bottle of dark glass, a strip of plaster, and spare socks rolled into a nylon bundle fell on her body.

She rushed to collect them, and everything continued to pour out of the bag, and when she accidentally touched Pyotr Sergeevich's hand with a hot, sweaty palm, it turned out that it was cold and hard.

“That's it,” said Svetlana Ivanovna and gropingly sat down on a chair. - That's all.

... A young, unceremonious paramedic arrived in the ambulance, who kept chatting on the phone and only waved his hand to questions - you don’t see me, I’m busy - but when I looked at the body, I turned green all over and jumped out into the front garden, and Pyotr Sergeevich was loaded onto a stretcher by bristly, hungover orderlies and carried him awkwardly, clumsily.

- Quiet there, drop it! - Svetlana Ivanovna shouted at the orderlies, and Galya sobbed.

- Yes, he really does not care, mother, - said one of the hungover.

The district policeman Igor, whose name was only that in his youth, wandered in bewilderment across the sea of paper and muttered to himself that the authorities would now arrive, and until they arrived, nothing could be touched in the library. The runaway neighbors were chatting and smoking under the windows - the Novikov-Priboy library was located in the "private sector", there were gardens all around and in the depths of the gardens - wooden houses under iron roofs.

- And after all, as I knew, as I knew, - Svetlana Ivanovna repeated. Tiny red balls - the medicine did not help anymore, she was breathing heavily, intermittently, and it was as if a steam hammer was pounding in her chest - bang, bang. - He told me how many times: if I die before you, do mercy, call Moscow, let me know ... He's from Moscow himself!

- Yes-ah, - Galya pulled and sobbed.

- Well, yes, well, yes, because he is a very young man! - Svetlana Ivanovna spoke through force. - Last year we celebrated the jubilee, fifty years, isn’t this age! .. I laughed at him, it happened: you, Sing, you’ll catch a cold at my funeral!

- So he is not himself, Svetlanochka Ivanovna, he was ... killed, right? They killed you? ..

The old librarian waved her hand at Galya.

In the courtyard, an ambulance snarled, for some reason set off a siren, Svetlana Ivanovna clutched at her heart.

- Galya, look there for a phone in your bag. You have to call, once the deceased ordered. Lord, you can't even say this, our Pyotr Sergeevich is deceased! And also glasses and a notebook. Look there, Galya ...

Glasses and a notebook were in the bag, and the phone was lying on the floor under the table.

Svetlana Ivanovna put on her glasses, for a long time, not distinguishing anything in front of her, leafing through the booklet - some pieces of paper fell out of it, Galya lifted them all and folded them on her knee.

- Well. Pete's hand is written down. Notify Raisa Vasilievna Gorbukhin. And the phone, Moscow, must be. Four hundred ninety-five ahead - is this Moscow?

Galya shrugged her shoulders.

Svetlana Ivanovna dialed the number just as long, and when there was a long buzz in the receiver, she straightened up with all her might and turned to stone.

- Raisa Vasilievna Gorbukhina? They call you from Tambov. We have a misfortune. Pyotr Sergeevich ordered to inform you first of all in case of misfortune, so I inform you ...

The general hung up the receiver, sat motionless, and then, not knowing what to do with his hands, put them on the back of his head.

The news was extremely unexpected and ... unpleasant. Something happened that could not happen, he knew from experience that this could not happen.

“It doesn’t happen,” the general said loudly, and in the silence of the cabinet did not recognize his own voice. “It doesn’t happen, but it is.

He knew exactly what to do, but all his life he was sure that he would never have to do this. The general was not afraid - he was almost never afraid of anything in his life - but in order to get down to business, he had to gather his courage, but he had not yet succeeded.

... What could have happened there? Something went wrong?..

It was foolish and unprofessional to ask himself - he did not know any details, did not see anything with his own eyes and understood that he would not see - but still he asked.

... What could he be wrong about? What did you not take into account? What did you calculate incorrectly? ..

Pushing himself off, he gently rolled in his chair, put his hands on the windowsill and looked out into the street. The sky hung over Moscow, a black-bellied snow cloud fell, and it was difficult to breathe because of its weight.

“I didn’t know it would turn out that way, Sing,” said the general, and again did not recognize his own voice. - What am I, I'm not talking about me! Where were you looking ?! What could you have missed ?!

Then he realized that he had to drink immediately, glanced at his watch - it turned out that the time was nothing, eleven in the morning, - walked to the sideboard, gulped into a heavy glass of whiskey, a lot, almost half, and drank in two long gulps.

Nothing else could be done.

He returned to the table, picked up the phone, hesitated, and pressed the button.

“Gather a group,” he ordered. - The code is orange.

There, it seems, they did not hear, because he had to repeat:

- Orange!

So that is all. Now nothing depends on him.

With a firm hand, he closed the cupboard door, put an empty glass on the table - then they would remove it, carry it away, - walked around the office, sat down in an armchair and began to look at Moscow. The wind was breaking through the windows, driving uneven trembling streams across the windows in different directions. In the rain, the city seemed to shrink, hiding under the wet iron roofs.

- Higher and higher and higher, - the general muttered under his breath, - we strive for the flight of our birds ...

In the morning, Khabarov had a good fight in the control room with Nechitailo himself, so much so that the volu-eyed Tomka, who was sitting for the secretary, and for the assistant, and for the servant, although she was listed as an employee of the border service, jumped out of her closet onto the street in one tunic.

- Throw your overcoat! The officer on duty shouted at her. - Dog cold and stormy wind! Where are you rushing !?

- There. - Breaking through the turnstile, Tomka pointed to the street with her chin. - I'm a man too! I don't want to listen to their color music anymore!

The attendant saw her off.

On the street, the wind hit so that the girl swayed, grabbed the handrail with both hands. Long black hair, which the entire Civil Air Fleet and the military at the same time were proud and admired, rose by themselves and stood on end. The tunic, fastened with one button, flew open, fluttered, pouted, it was almost ripped off.

- From a crazy woman!

The attendant got out from behind the table, with an effort opened the door and, almost falling into the wind, dragged Tomka into the glass entrance.

She choked and goggled wild eyes.

- You are the first day in Anadyr, I don’t understand ?! It is said - the wind! No, it started! She can't hear Mata anymore! Stay here, since you're so tender, you can't hear him here, mat! ..

- Here I have where this mat of yours! - Tomka, breathing heavily, sawed his throat with his hand. On the other, she furiously tucked a wind-torn blouse into his belt. - My ears get stuck, and day and night are one and the same, as if it’s impossible to talk in a human way!

- What is it yourself? - asked the duty officer, returning to the table. - Don't you swear, dove?

Khabarov finally sent Nechitailo with his fuel and petty bureaucratic soul away, fell out into the corridor, hit the door and lit a cigarette.

“We don’t smoke here,” said the duty officer, and laughed, “the resolution of the government and the State Duma.

Khabarov also sent the Duma and the government, but not as sweeping and colorful as Nechitailo. He finished smoking, stubbed out the butt on the sole and threw it into the corner.

- If anyone needs me, I'm in the billiard room! He snapped. - Though I drive the balls, why talk to such ... with you! ..

- And what is it?

- And nothing, your mother! I have to go to Egvekinot, but he has limits on fuel! ..

- Where to go, the wind is thirty meters per second and across the strip!

- Yes, you are all lost! - Khabarov roared with all his might again. - This one has limits, that one has a wind! The weather service gave a forecast - it will settle down by the evening! And there are three sick people! And a child! .. Why should you wait, when this nit will sign me the fuel ?!

- Lyosha, - said Tom, who appeared near the table quietly, - do you want me to brew some tea for you? I have a tiled one, tundra, you love ...

The men looked at her. She was already all tidied up, neat, kept her eyes down, her fingers twirling the iron button on her tunic - a marvelous wonder! ..

- Yes, I do not need anything! I have to work, do you understand that ?!

- Lyosh, there is bacon, real, homemade. Grandma sent. They have their own house in Kalach, and chickens, and a wild boar ... I can make sandwiches.

- Do it for me! - the duty officer jumped up, and his face became tender. - I know how I like lard ?!

Khabarov waved his hand at them and walked along the corridor with a wide step.

The door to Nechitailo's office opened slightly, a raglan flew out of it and landed on the chairs that stood along the corridor wall. Toma ran up, grabbed the raglan and rushed after Khabarov.

- I'll make a sandwich, yes, Lesch? And a seagull? Sweeter, you love sweet so! ..

Khabarov took the raglan from her, slipped his arms into his sleeves and suddenly grinned:

- Kalach - what is it?

- So the city is like that, Lyosha! .. - Toma jabbed. - Kalach-on-Don, I myself am from Volgograd, and grandma and grandpa live with us in Kalach, and they have a house there, and a garden, and so on ...

- Wow, - the pilot Khabarov said to himself under his breath, - I didn't know such a city!

Toma followed him with her eyes. They were affectionate, truthful, speaking so frankly that the attendant grunted and turned away.

She reached the door to the office, looked around, but there was no longer any Khabarov. She caressed his invisible trace with her gaze, sighed and entered. From there immediately came the dissatisfied bay Nechitailo, however, it soon subsided.

The duty officer shook his head and once again grunted in disappointment - that's it, that's how it is until one woman is dry on flyers, what's wrong with them ?! Maybe raglans, but in management everything is in raglans, not only flyers! Why do they get the woman's love ?!

The wind subsided as suddenly as it had blown, as if it had not been there - as always, in Anadyr. Khabarov, exhausted from the banging of billiard balls, savory anecdotes - not a single new one, all have long been learned by heart - tobacco smoke and tiled tea, similar to a mixture, went to the strip.

“Annushka” in its usual place seemed to him unexpectedly cheerful, and Khabarov thought to see her sad - after all, sweaty Nechitailo had yelled at both of them early in the morning! splashed in my eyes so that I had to put on dark glasses on my nose in one fell swoop.

The engine is covered, the stretch marks are reinforced so that the airplane will not be blown into the Anadyr estuary by the winds, and these stretch marks seemed to confirm that you will not fly anywhere today, and you will be stuck in a joke! ..

Below something flashed, a gloved hand was thrown up - Khabarov knew what that meant. This means that the outbred aerodrome dog Marat came running to say hello.

- Great, great, - said Khabarov and scratched Marat behind the ear.

Marat furiously twisted his tail, like a propeller, and threw Khabarov's hand over and over again - he was bored.

- Higher, and higher, and higher, - Khabarov hummed and stroked the dog on the head in time, - we strive for the flight of our birds, and in each propeller the calmness of our borders breathes! ..

A technician in a blue warm jacket and wadded trousers came up from the hangar. We talked about Nechitailo and the damned limits, about the forecast for tomorrow, about a new movie in the Officers' House in the evening, and then dancing. This is the newest movie Khabarov saw on The big earth last summer, but did not upset the technician.

- Why are you messing around, Alexey Ilyich? Normally you will go to Egvekinot on Friday, maybe the weather and kerosene will be ...

“Perhaps,” Khabarov agreed.

A strange feeling that something was about to happen and he would not have to "routinely" go to Egvekinot on Friday, suddenly quite definitely formed in his head, and Khabarov even looked around to check.

Everything around was familiar, long-studied, nothing new.

- And on Friday morning I drive the engine, - the technician continued, - our machine is stagnant! ..

The airfield dog Marat brought an ancient one from the hangar soccer ball with a deflated camera and a dent on his side, he put Khabarov under his feet. He took aim properly, gave in, the ball spun, flew. Marat danced with impatience, and then rushed to catch.

The pilot and the technician followed him with their eyes, and then the technician told a joke - not just with a beard, but right with a gray beard! - and then Khabarov said that he had known this anecdote from the time of the Kachin Flight School, and even then he was as old as the world.

The technician grunted: “Well, please,” he left, and Khabarov threw the ball to Marat several times.

... Something has to happen. Today. Right now.

- Marat, come on, get the ball! Well?! Where did you leave it?

An ear caught a distant roar, growing rapidly, an airplane emerged from behind the hill - it was walking at a low altitude, came in from a distant drive, as if about to land.

Khabarov with a lowered ball was blocking himself from the sun, trying to examine the identification marks.

The roar of the engines covered him, Marat barked - inaudibly because of the roar - and an object fell on the concrete about a hundred meters from Khabarov.

The plane made a circle over the airfield, began to gain altitude and went towards the hills.

Technicians fled from the hangar.

There are four of them. Pilot from Anadyr; famous art critic; a shaman from an Altai village; fashionable Moscow artist. Each of them has their own life, but a freelance situation arises, and these four get together. More precisely, they are being collected to complete the assignment! .. The director died in the Tambov library, and after that strange events take place - the library was destroyed, as if they were trying to find all the treasures of the world in it, and obviously someone was watching the employees. What exactly was hidden among the books? .. And why is it so important to find it? .. Who are these four? Why do they know how to do everything - to control any kind of transport, shoot, do surgery, solve complex codes? .. The pilot, art critic, shaman and artist will answer all questions and pass all the tests. They have a whole common life behind them, which contains everything: love, parting, quarrels with loved ones, old grievances and new hopes. They will cope with the task, unravel the tangle, survive losses and gain love - nobody canceled gravity! ..

Tatiana Ustinova

Force of gravity

* * *

- Higher and higher and higher we strive for the flight of our birds, and in each propeller the calmness of our borders breathes! ..

At the "borders" a bunch of keys fell out of the castle and dropped under the porch. The lock swayed on the shackle.

Svetlana Ivanovna came down from the porch - the boards creaked, - picked up the keys, was aiming at the lock and then she only realized that it was open!

- Pyotr Sergeevich, are you here? .. Or where?

Nobody responded.

The bad thing started right away. It was as if a paper river flowed under Svetlana Ivanovna's feet. The librarian gasped and clutched a giant oilcloth bag to her chest.

The river consisted of newspapers and magazines, and they were all crumpled, as if trampled, they covered the entire floor in the corridor, so that not even the carpet runway was visible.

- Fathers lights, - Svetlana Ivanovna muttered, and her chin trembled, and her breath was hammered.

In the pocket of her bag, she fumbled for the medicine, squeezed out a tiny red ball and threw it under her tongue.

- Fathers, - Svetlana Ivanovna repeated and thought: it would be nice to faint now, but she did not know how to faint.

The body of a man lying on the floor behind a table with drawers pulled out and gutted did not seem so scary to her.

It should have lie there and it lay.

- Pyotr Sergeevich, - Svetlana Ivanovna called and bent over the body. - Petya! .. What's the matter with you? Why did you lie down here?

“That's it,” said Svetlana Ivanovna and gropingly sat down on a chair. - That's all.

- Quiet there, drop it! - Svetlana Ivanovna shouted at the orderlies, and Galya sobbed.

- Yes, he really does not care, mother, - said one of the hungover.

- Yes-ah, - Galya pulled and sobbed.

- So he is not himself, Svetlanochka Ivanovna, he was ... killed, right? They killed you? ..

The old librarian waved her hand at Galya.

In the courtyard, an ambulance snarled, for some reason set off a siren, Svetlana Ivanovna clutched at her heart.

Glasses and a notebook were in the bag, and the phone was lying on the floor under the table.

- Well. Pete's hand is written down. Notify Raisa Vasilievna Gorbukhin. And the phone, Moscow, must be. Four hundred ninety-five ahead - is this Moscow?

Galya shrugged her shoulders.

Svetlana Ivanovna dialed the number just as long, and when there was a long buzz in the receiver, she straightened up with all her might and turned to stone.

- Raisa Vasilievna Gorbukhina? They call you from Tambov. We have a misfortune. Pyotr Sergeevich ordered to inform you first of all in case of misfortune, so I inform you ...

The general hung up the receiver, sat motionless, and then, not knowing what to do with his hands, put them on the back of his head.

The news was extremely unexpected and ... unpleasant. Something happened that could not happen, he knew from experience that this could not happen.

“It doesn’t happen,” the general said loudly, and in the silence of the cabinet did not recognize his own voice. “It doesn’t happen, but it is.

Tatiana Ustinova

Force of gravity

Higher and higher and higher we strive for the flight of our birds, and in each propeller the calmness of our borders breathes! ..

At the "borders" a bunch of keys fell out of the castle and dropped under the porch. The lock swayed on the shackle.

What is it! .. - Svetlana Ivanovna, just cheerfully humming under her breath "March of the aviators", marveled at the castle, leaned over the railing and began to fumble with her eyes. There she is, a bunch of something! .. Look, you galloped away! ..

Svetlana Ivanovna came down from the porch - the boards creaked, - picked up the keys, was aiming at the lock and then she only realized that it was open!

Pyotr Sergeevich, are you here? .. Or where?

Nobody responded.

The bad thing started right away. It was as if a paper river flowed under Svetlana Ivanovna's feet. The librarian gasped and clutched a giant oilcloth bag to her chest.

The river consisted of newspapers and magazines, and they were all crumpled, as if trampled, they covered the entire floor in the corridor, so that not even the carpet runway was visible.

Fathers light, - Svetlana Ivanovna muttered, and her chin trembled, and her breathing became disordered.

In the pocket of her bag, she fumbled for the medicine, squeezed out a tiny red ball and threw it under her tongue.

Fathers, - repeated Svetlana Ivanovna and thought: it would be nice to faint now, but she did not know how to faint.

The body of a man lying on the floor behind a table with drawers pulled out and gutted did not seem so scary to her.

It should have lie there and it lay.

Pyotr Sergeevich, - Svetlana Ivanovna called and bent over the body. - Petya! .. What's the matter with you? Why did you lie down here?

That's all, - said Svetlana Ivanovna and gropingly sat down on a chair. - That's all.

Tatiana Vitalievna Ustinova

Force of gravity

Fine, Max decided, and stared at the newspaper.

There, a journalist, constantly referring to his blog, talked about the imminent collapse, the end of times, the finish line of civilization. Max was always entertained by such speculations.

“Bring me some more coffee and, perhaps, a limoncello,” the lady said to the waiter who approached.

- I, too, coffee, soda water, ice and lemon, - ordered Max and met her eyes.

... She needs something from me. She just won't lag behind.

“You’re Max Sheinerman,” the lady stated, confirming his thoughts. - Right?

- Absolutely. Have we met?..

She smiled. Oddly enough, she had her own teeth, not plastic.

- Anyone who is interested in art in one way or another knows what Max Scheinerman looks like.

- Thanks.

She barely shrugged her shoulders.

- This is not a compliment, but the truth. My name is Elizaveta Khvostova. I collect Lev Bakst.

Max smiled:

- Exclusively Bakst?

“Among others,” Elizaveta Khvostova answered quickly. - You are the most authoritative expert on artists from the "World of Art", and God himself sent you to me.

Max glanced sideways at the newspaper speculating about the collapse of civilization, sighed, put it down and made a listening face.

- I was shown a wonderful portrait, - the lady began, - absolutely luxurious and in excellent condition! Experts say that this is Bakst, nine hundred and two.

- Whose portrait?

- Countess Keller.

Max was surprised:

- The portrait of Countess Keller is very well known, it is really Lev Samoilovich Bakst and indeed 1900, it is kept in Zaraisk, in the Zaraisk Kremlin Museum. Well, if not kidnapped, of course, but I don't know anything about it.

“You are right,” said the lady, “but I managed to find out that two portraits were painted. Two! One is really in the museum, but the second remained in a private collection and is now being sold.

- Two portraits of Countess Keller ?! - Max was amazed. - And one of them in a private collection?

- Yes Yes.

Coffee was brought in, and they were silent as the waiter quietly placed cups and glasses on the tables. The sea - green, shaggy, icy - thumped into the granite of the embankment. Where the sun fell on it, it was almost emerald, and in the shade - malachite, into blackness. Couples strolled along the embankment, children rolled on bicycles, girls with flying hair were photographed.

“Help me with this portrait, Mr. Sheinerman,” Elizaveta Khvostova asked when the waiter left. - Of course, all examinations will be carried out in the most thorough way, but I need your opinion.

- I can express my preliminary opinion. The story is absolutely incredible.

The lady looked at him point-blank.

Dandy, dandy. The suit is made to order, a cane is leaning against the chair - that's how! .. Handsome man - dark hair, bright eyes, sharply defined cheekbones, expressive nose. No Slavic uncertainty and blurring of features. Everything is skillfully sculpted, as if it were also made to order! .. When ordering a face for yourself, you can hardly get better than this. Unexpectedly young, looks older in photographs. He behaves condescendingly, but wary, however, it should be so.

Max let her examine him. He was intrigued.

- Is the private collection you are talking about located in Moscow?

Elizabeth shook her head.

- No, in Paris.

“Amazing business,” Max muttered.

- If you agree to give an opinion, I will, of course, cover all expenses - flight, hotel, stay. Do you have time now?

He laughed and clarified:

- Are we already agreeing?

“Listen, you are a world-renowned expert! .. I would never have gotten you if we hadn't collided today in this… nice place. I will stay here for two more days, I have a short vacation, and I try to always be in the Russian Baltics in the spring. Then I will fly to Moscow, and from there to Paris.

“This is all great,” Max said, “but I really only work on recommendation. Which art historian do you know? Maybe curators?

- Of course, many! Elizabeth exclaimed impatiently. “If you want, I’ll make a list and send it to you by mail.

- If I mean electronic, then I don't have it. I do not use such communication means.

- Why?..

He shrugged.

- I do not like. With your permission ... - Max got up, fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette case. “I'll be back in five minutes.

It was windy and sunny on the embankment so that I had to close my eyes. The sea seemed to beat at the feet - bang, bang! - and then rustled over the stones, retreating. The wind threw his tie over his shoulder, ruffled his hair. Max grabbed the railing with both hands and looked into the water.

… An incredible story! Two portraits of Countess Keller, one of them in Paris! .. Khvostov's surname did not tell him anything, and Max knew all more or less significant collectors by sight, by phone numbers and by the names of their wives! However, now every minute, as if out of thin air, new collectors and connoisseurs appear, who will not be tomorrow, and their hastily assembled collections will also be hastily sold out.

... New Bakst is interesting.

Deciding that he would not smoke, he leisurely climbed the wide steps - the doorman opened the door for him, sat down in his seat and told Elizabeth that he would think about her proposal, but recommendations are still needed.

- How careful you are! - Elizabeth exclaimed, not too pleased with him.

- Experience, - Max threw up his hands. - I would be wasting a lot of time if I worked without recommendations.