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

"Enough, now. Take."

"All right." Allie gathered up the remaining eggs, and they turned to leave, thinking the alien would stay
put. But as Cyrus was holding the door to the kitchen for his wife, they heard a scrabbling behind them.
They looked, and there was the barrel, lurching along on six shiny legs, stalked eyes waving as they took
in the yard, the car, the oxen behind their rail fence.

"We haven't had a dog for years," said Cyrus. "Wish we could keep it."

"Cyrus!"

The word got out, of course. By the time the limousine arrived, the yard was choked with neighbors,
townsfolk, and local reporters. There was even a wire-service helicopter in the pasture. Their alien was
the center of attention, and it was loving it. It burbled happily away, posing for pictures, answering
questions, and making comments. At one point, its gist seemed to be that its new shell reminded it acutely
of a precious antique it had had to leave at home. "Hurry," it burbled sadly. "Danger. Fear. Leave, all.
Now, new. Bigger!"

When the car pulled in, honking aside the crowd, the alien turned to watch, raising itself to the tips of its
legs. It was silent as the driver, a young black man uniformed in powder blue, jumped out, saying,
"What's been happening?" It remained silent as three of its fellows emerged from the back seat. They
wore the coal-scuttle shells everyone knew from the teevee, and they were small, no larger than a bushel
basket. When they saw the barrel, they sank on their legs, just as if they were bowing. They didn't speak,
though it seemed natural to think they would have come armed with more than one choice phrase for
their runaway.

The barrel lurched toward its smaller fellows. They flinched, retreating toward the car. "Up!" it burbled.
"Home. Now!"

The others scurried. "Master!" they chorused. Their voices piped liquidly, and Cyrus thought their shells
must have very different acoustics from his barrel. Their attitude puzzled him, too, until Allie jogged his
elbow with her own and said, "It's so much bigger. That must be it."

"They think it's smarter!"

She nodded. She turned toward one of the reporters and told him what they had learned. "If size and
intelligence go together, then the bigger ones must be the leaders."

The reporter, a fiftyish man with a bulbous nose and white hair, answered in a whiskey voice. "Then you
must have the boss-bug of them all here. I've never seen a bigger one."

Cyrus said; "It's just the barrel." He noticed the patch on the reporter's sleeve. The symbol was the same
as the one on the helicopter. "Though I suppose it gives it plenty of room to grow."

They turned their attention back to the aliens as the newcomers scrambled nimbly into the limousine. The
barrel followed, just managing to squeeze through the door. It was a tight fit, and Cyrus was glad his
barrel hadn't been any bigger. Or was he? He was sorry to see the alien go. He'd been counting on that
barrel for his cider, and, besides, he rather liked the alien. It was such a peculiar little bugger.