"Peter David - Sir Apropos 01 - Sir Apropos Of Nothing" - читать интересную книгу автора (David Peter)

oaf--noticed it.

In point of fact, someone brought it to his attention. A patron was lying flat on my mother's belly when
I decided that that would be a good time to announce my presence to the world. Imagine, if you will, the
surprise of the patron to feel a fluttering but firm kick coming through my mother's belly and bumping
against his own stomach. He froze, as did she, for she knew what it was and he thought, but couldn't be
sure. Just to make sure that there was no doubt, I kicked a second time, and he leaped off her as if her
insides had suddenly become shards of glass.

"What the hell do you have in there!" he shouted.

"In where?"

"In your belly! Gods...you're pregnant!" he said without waiting for her to reply. "I'm not the father!
Don't you dare say I'm the father!"

My mother was not given to bursts of wit, but her reply was about as close as she usually came. "This
is our first time together, you idiot," she said. "What, you think you're so potent that you not only
impregnate a woman, but you do it retroactively? Skip the first six months of the term? Why not just have
sex with a woman and cause the child to spring out of her head fully formed before you even put on your
hat to leave?"

He was not amused. Nor was Stroker when he found out when the irate customer told him moments
later.

He dragged her into the back room. There was something of a sick irony to that considering that's
where it had all started. "Who's the father, you damned trollop!" he shouted.

His wrath had worked on her before, nicely cowing her or prompting her to turn away in fear. But
that didn't happen this time. It was as if, with the revelation of her secret, she felt strengthened rather than
exposed. The angrier he became, the calmer she was. "I don't know who the father is," she said. "And it's
odd that you would call me a 'damned' trollop. You made money off me and contributed nothing."

"I gave you a roof over your head!"

"Men who seek my services aren't concerned about architecture. I could ply my trade in a tent. If I'm
damned, Stroker, you're twice damned."

He backhanded her then. He wore a large ring with a dragon on it for luck, and the thing tore at her
lower lip. But she didn't flinch. As blood trickled down her chin, she didn't even reach to wipe it off. She
just stood there, with a level and unwavering gaze. There was no contempt in that stare, or pity. There
was, at most, vague disinterest.

He hit her twice more, trying to elicit some sort of response from her. Still there was nothing. He
clearly considered doing it again, but it wasn't having the desired effect and he didn't have the will or the
attention span to continue with the futility of browbeating someone who simply wasn't responding. So
with an irritated grunt, which was what usually passed for pithy conversation from Stroker, he turned and
headed for the door.

Just before he reached it, though, something seemed to click in his tiny little brain. Perhaps he was