"Gordon R. Dickson - The Right to Arm Bears" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dickson Gordon R)

"Nothing," said John, hastily. "Clearing my throat."
"Thought you were going to say something," grunted the Bluffer, and swung back into his regular
stride.
What John had suddenly `remembered' was one of the little tricks possible under Dilbian custom.
He, himself, had not expected to start out after the Lamorc girl until the next morning at the
earliest; and then not without a full session with Joshua Guy in which he would pin that elusive
little man down about the whys and wherefores of the situation. As a citizen of the great human
race it was his right to be fully briefed before being sent out on such a job.
That is, as a human citizen it was his right. As a piece of Dilbian mail, his rights were somewhat
differentтАФgenerally consisting of the postman's responsibility to deliver him without undue damage
in transit to his destination.
Therefore, the little trickiness of the Hill Bluffer. As John had noticed, the postman had lost a
great deal of his enthusiasm for the job on discovering the nature of the harness in which he
would be carrying John. The Bluffer could not, of course, refuse to carry John without loss of
honor, the hypno training informed John. But if a piece of mail should try to dictate the manner
in which it was being delivered, then possibly Dilbian honor would stand excused, and the Bluffer
could turn back, washing his hands of the whole matter.
So John said nothing.
All the same, he added another black mark to the score he was building up in the back of his mind
against Joshua Guy. The Dilbian ambassador should have forseen this. John thought of the wrist
phone he was wearing and began to compose a few of the statements he intended to make to that
particular gentleman, as soon as he had a moment of privacy in which to make the call.
Meanwhile, the Bluffer went away down the slope of the main street of Humrog, turned right and
began to climb the trail to the first ridge above the town. He had not been altogether
exaggerating in his claims for himself as someone able to swing his feet. Almost immediately, it
seemed to John, they were away from the great log buildings of the approximately five thousand
population town of Humrog, and between the green thicknesses of the pinelike trees that covered
the mountainous part of the rocky planet.
The Bluffer's long legs pistoned and swung in a steady rhythm, carrying himself and John up a good
eight to ten degree slope at not much less than eight to ten miles an hour. John, swaying like a
rider on the back of an elephant, concentrated on falling into the pattern of the Bluffer's
movements and saving his own breath. The Bluffer, himself, said nothing.
They reached the top of the ridge and dipped down the slope into the first valley crossed by the
trail. Long branches whipped past John as he clung to the Bluffer's shoulder straps and they
plunged down the switchback trail as if any moment the Dilbian might miss his footing and go
tumbling headlong off the trail and down the slope alongside.
Yet in spite of all this, John felt himself beginning to get used to the shifts of the big body
under him. He was, in fact, responding with all the skill of an unusually talented athlete already
experienced in a number of physical skills. He was meeting in stride the problems posed by being a
Dilbian-rider. In fact, he was becoming good at it, as he had always become good at such
thingsтАФfrom jai alai to wrestlingтАФever since he was old enough to toddle beyond the confines of
his crib.
Realizing this did not make him happy. It is a sort of inverse but universal law of nature that
makes poets want to be soldiers of fortune, and soldiers of fortune secretly yearn to write
poetry. John, a naturally born physical success, had always dreamed of the day his life could be
exclusively devoted to peering through microscopes and writing scholarly reports. Fate, he
reflected not without bitterness, was operating against him as usual.
"What?" demanded the Hill Bluffer.
"Did I say something?" asked John, starting guiltily back to the realities of his situation.
"You said something," replied the Hill Bluffer darkly. "I don't know what, exactly. Sounded like