"Tom Easton - The Bung Hole Caper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Easton Thomas A)

for more, and paid, generously. "Our guests," said the teevee announcer, "have said they will pay for
whatever they want. And we want their money, for only with it can we buy the wonders they have to sell.
The trick has been finding things they want. We are very different creatures, with different tastes and
different needs, and they are far ahead of us in technology. Too many of the things we make, they can
make better, and they have less desire for our handicrafts than we have for Indian pots and blankets.
After all, we aren't related." The announcer smiled, showing well-kept teeth.

Cyrus grunted. Allie said, "Maybe they would like your cider."

Cyrus grunted again. "Doubt it. 'Tain't wine, is it?" She agreed. Cider was a country thing that rarely
appealed even to most humans, living as they did in cities. Most folks preferred wine and beer. Why
should the super-civilized aliens be any different?

First thing next morning, as soon as the milking was done, Cyrus headed for the barn. He wanted to get
his cider into his barrel, get it working with a touch of baker's yeast, get it started toward his favorite
brew. But when he entered the barn, the barrel was not as he had left it. The bung hole was no longer
plugged, and the barrel itself had rolled a bit.

He scratched his head. Had someone come last night to steal some cider? No. All the jugs were there,
just as full as he had left them. He swore.

When the barrel twitched, he swore again. When he saw a movement behind the unplugged bung-hole,
he did it once more. Damn! His cider barrel, that he was counting on to give him better drink, was
occupied. A rat? A mouse? It was late in the year for snakes, and birds would never enter such a place.

There was a sound, like a watery voice. The movement repeated, and a ropy thing, a tentacle, emerged
from the bung-hole. With difficulty, he realized what he had. An alien. Of all things. What was it doing
here? Where was its chauffeur? Where was its shell? He traded his puzzlement for a growing anger.
What right did it have to take over his barrel, to deny him proper cider?

The tentacle wriggled. "Please, excuse," the voice burbled, echoing within the barrel. "Shell, too-small.
Abandoned, vehicle. Seek, other."

Cyrus hunkered down. He peered into the bung-hole, trying to make out a detail or two. It was too dark
in there, but he glimpsed what might have been an eye, a damp hide, a lobsterish mouth. By all accounts,
the things were harmless enough. He didn't fear, and his anger was fading, already giving way to
fascination.

The tentacle writhed. It tapped the end of the barrel above the bung-hole. It tapped twice, once to either
side. "Make," the voice burbled again. "Holes. Eyes." It tapped below, along the barrel's curving flank.
"Legs."

There was a pause while Cyrus thought it over. The creature didn't speak the language well, but it could
get its wishes across well enough. Cyrus knew what it wanted, all right. But he knew, too, that boring all
those holes would ruin the barrel. He'd be stuck with plastic cider for another year, and maybe longer.
Finally, the voice spoke again. "Will, pay," it said.

That was another matter. "All right," said Cyrus. "Though I want to know why you chose my barrel." He
stood and headed for his workbench. He found his electric drill and the hole saw. He added over his
shoulder, "How big you want the holes?"