"Dalmas,.John.-.Lion.Of.Farside.2.-.Bavarian.Gate.v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dalmas John)

Hills.
Well, he reminded himself, he at least had his memories and all the things he'd
learned. He patted the wallet in his jacket pocket: It held six dollars, and the
picture of Varia his mother had given him when he'd mentioned not having one.
And he had a destination, too. He and Varia had talked about maybe going there
someday. And the clone-Liiset or whoever she was-had probably never even heard
of Oregon.
2
The Jungle Outside Miles City, Montana
It was night. Curtis Macurdy stood amidst sparse brush, watching stew simmer in
a gallon lard pail. Sitting or squatting around him were seven men as hungry as
he. Other fires, more or less scattered, flickered in the darkness; it seemed to
him that more men rode freight trains these days than rode passenger coaches.
President Roosevelt talked about economic recovery, and people were halfway
hopeful, but times were hard. Perhaps hardest on those men, some no longer
young, who'd left families behind, dependent on kinfolk, while they rode freight
trains to California's orange groves, Idaho's potato farms, Arizona's irrigated
cotton fields, where rumor said jobs could be found.
In the hobo jungle, most were unemployed working men; around this fire, only the
grizzled oldtimer who called himself Dutch was not; Dutch and possibly one
other. Dutch had lived on the bum a dozen years-since his house had burned with
his wife in it.
The other was a seemingly crazy man, whom the rest of them avoided. His eyes
were strange, and his lips moved in swift and silent monolog. Usually silent; at
times he muttered a monotone of obscenities, the words almost too rapid to
recognize. The man's aura was small and murky, its colors indistinct, brownish,
with tinges of what might have been indigo. On one side, close to the head, it
was black. Focusing more sharply, Macurdy got a sense of apathy,
self-destruction; dying.
Dutch put a stick under the pail's wire bail and lifted the stew carefully from
the coals. Most of the others got to their feet, anticipating. "Okay," Dutch
said, "don't crowd. You'll get yours." Only Macurdy and a burly Indian held
back; they and the crazy man. The pail belonged to Dutch, but most of them had
contributed to the contents-a tin of beef, one of beans, another of stewed
tomatoes, a carrot, a couple of potatoes.... Macurdy's contribution had been a
sausage, which Dutch had cut up small. Some of the men had only tin cans to eat
from-soup or bean cans, mostly-their roughcut openings hammered carefully smooth
with rocks so a man could drink from them. Dutch, like Macurdy, had an army
canteen cup.
"Go ahead," Macurdy said when their turn had come. The Indian looked at him a
moment, then held his can out, and Dutch ladled it full with a spoon. Macurdy
felt a twinge of guilt at taking any. He'd learned to draw energy from the Web
of the World when he needed to, though Vulkan had told him he'd need to eat
fairly regularly for other needs. But his stomach grumbled and complained when
unfed. Besides, refusing food would make him seem too peculiar.
Macurdy too had a spoon. The stew wasn't bad, he decided, the serving small but
thick. Dutch's bindle held salt and pepper. Dutch was looking at the crazy man
now. "You better have some," he said at last. "When this is gone, there won't be
no more till we rustle up the makings."
The crazy man's lips had stopped. Slowly he got to his feet, staring intently