"Piers Anthony - Bio of a Space Tyrant 02 - Mercenary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anthony Piers)

"Your song?" Was this more slang?

"You asked for it." Joe sat on the bunk, hooking his heels under it so as not to drift away in the trace gravity, and sang. His voice was decent but hardly trained:

I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night, alive as you and I. "But Joe," says I, "You're ten years dead!" Says Joe, "I didn't die!"

And now the others in the ship joined in: "Says Joe, 'I didn't die!' "

It was a rousing song with a catchy tune, and the men sang it with gusto. But I didn't understand it. "A dead union organizer?" I asked.

"Several centuries ago," Joe said. "But it's a good name."

"Do the others have songs, too?" This was another aspect of the culture I had not known about. I had always been one of the most fluent students in my English class, and I could speak the language almost faultlessly; now I realized that there is a great deal more to understanding than fluency.

"All of them. That's what safeguards a man's place. His song."

"He just chooses any song he likes?"

Joe laughed again. He was really at ease here. "Never! It has to be given to him by the group. Since this is your first trip, Hope, we'll figure out yours on the way."

"But I hardly know any English songs!"

"You'll learn this one. We'll work it out, never fear."

"But suppose I don't like it?"

"Tough stuff," he said with a smile. "Your song is you." There was a murmur of assent by the others.

I shrugged. It wasn't a vital matter. My head hurt, and I just wanted to rest. I lay on the bunk, secured by its restraining strap, as the ship gradually filled up. Most of the workers seemed to know each other at least casually; they had been out on similar jobs before. The atmosphere was one of familiarity rather than festivity.

"Hey, I hain't seen you before!" a man said to me.

"I'm new," I admitted.

"Then you have to be initiated!" he exclaimed, grinning in a not entirely friendly manner. "You know what we do to-"

I saw his gaze go to Joe Hill, who had come up beside me. Joe had drawn a monstrous dagger and was using it to carve his dirty fingernails back.

"He's with you?" the man asked Joe.

"Uh-huh. He got mugged and needed help, so I thought we'd help him. It's the neighborly thing."

The man's eyes flicked to the dagger, and away. "Uh, yeah, sure. We'll help him. But he's got to-"

"Have his song," Joe finished, making a small, significant gesture with the blade.

"Just what I was going to say!" the man agreed. "We've got to tag him with a song."

"Once we get moving," Joe said, putting away his knife.