"Foster, Alan Dean - Flinx 1 - For Love of Mother-Not" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

"Mastiff," the visitor replied, leaning on her cane.
"That the last name?"
"First and last."
"Mastiff Mastiff?" The clerk gave her a sour look.
"Just Mastiff," the old woman said.
"The government prefers multiple names."
"Ye know what the government can do with its preferences."
The clerk sighed. He tapped the terminal's keys. "Age?"
"None of your business." She gave it a moment's thought and added, "Put down old."
The clerk did so, shaking his head dolefully. "Income?"
"Sufficient."
"Now look here, you," the clerk began exasperated, "in such matters as the acquisition of responsibility for welfared individuals, the city government requires certain specifics."
"The city government can shove its specifics in after its preferences." Mother Mastiff gestured toward the platform with her cane, a wide, sweeping gesture that the clerk had the presence of mind to duck. "The bidding is over. The other bidder has taken his leave. Hastily. Now I can take my money and go home, or I can contribute to the government's balance of payments and to your salary. Which is it to be?"
"Oh, all right," the clerk agreed petulantly. He completed his entries and punched a key. A seemingly endless form spat from the printout slot. Folded, it was about half a centimeter thick. "Read these."
Mother Mastiff hefted the sheaf of forms. "What are they?"
"Regulations regarding your new charge. The boy is yours to raise, not to mistreat. Should you ever be detected in violation of the instructions and laws therein stated"-he gestured at the wad-"he can be recovered from you with forfeiture of the acquisition fee. In addition, you must familiarize yourself with-" He broke off the lecture as the boy in question was escorted into the room by another official.
The youngster glanced at the clerk, then up at Mother Mastiff. Then, as if he'd performed similar rituals on previous occasions, he walked quietly up to her, took her left hand, and put his right hand in it. The wide, seemingly guileless eyes of a child gazed up at her face. They were bright green, she noted absently.
"The clerk was about to continue, then found something unexpected lodged in his throat and turned his attention instead back to his desk top. "That's all. The two of you can go."
Mother Mastiff harrumphed as if she had won a victory and led the boy out onto the streets of Drallar. They had supplied him with that one vital piece of clothing, a small blue slickertic of his own. He pulled the cheap plastic tighter over his head as they reached the first intersection.
"Well, boy, 'tis done. Devil come take me and tell me if I know why I did it, but I expect that I'm stuck with ye now. And ye, with me, of course. Do you have anything at the dorm we should go to recover?"
He shook his head slowly. Quiet sort, she thought. That was all to the good. Maybe he wouldn't be a quick squaller. She still wondered what had prompted her sudden and uncharacteristic outburst of generosity. The boy's hand was warm in her gnarled old palm. That palm usually enfolded a credcard for processing other people's money or artwork to be studied with an eye toward purchase and even, on occasion, a knife employed for something more radical than the preparation of food, but never before the hand of a small child. It was a peculiar sensation.
They worked their way through crowds hurrying to beat the onset of night, avoiding the drainage channels that ran down the center of each street. Thick aromas drifted from the dozens of food stalls and restaurants that fringed the avenue they were walking. Still the boy said not a word. Finally, tired of the way his face would turn toward any place from which steam and smells rose, Mother Mastiff halted before one establishment with which she was familiar. They were nearly home, anyway.
"You hungry, boy?"
He nodded slowly, just once.
"Stupid of me. I can go all day without food and not give it a second thought. I forget sometimes that others have not that tolerance in their bellies." She nodded toward the doorway. "Well, what are ye waiting for?"
She followed him into the restaurant, then led the way to a quiet booth set against the wall. A circular console rose from the center of the table. She studied the menu imprinted on its flank, compared it with the stature of the child seated expectantly next to her, then punched several buttons set alongside the menu.
Before too long, the console sank into the table, then reappeared a moment later stacked with food; a thick, pungent stew dimpled with vegetables, long stalks of some beige tuber, and a mass of multistriped bread.
"Go ahead," she said when the boy hesitated, admiring his reserve and table manners. "I'm not too hungry, and I never eat very much."
She watched him while he devoured the food, sometimes picking at the colorful bread to assuage what little hunger she felt herself, barely acknowledging the occasional greeting from a passing acquaintance or friend. When the bottom of the stew bowl had been licked to a fine polish and the last scrap of bread had vanished, she asked, "Still hungry?"
He hesitated, measuring her, then gave her a half nod. "I'm not surprised," she replied, "but I don't want ye to have any more tonight. You've just downed enough to fill a grown man. Any more on top of what you've already had and you'd end up wasting it all. Tomorrow morning, okay?" He nodded slowly, understanding.
"And one more thing, boy. Can ye talk?"
"Yes." His voice was lower than anticipated, unafraid and, she thought, tinged with thankfulness.
"I can talk pretty good," he added without further prompting, surprising her. "I've been told that for my age I'm a very good talker."
"That's nice. I was starting to worry." She slid from her seat, using her cane to help her stand, and took his hand once again. "It's not too far now."
"Not too far to where?"
"To where I live. To where ye will live from now on." They exited the restaurant and were enveloped by the wet night.
"What's your name?" He spoke without looking up at her, preferring instead to study the dim storefronts and isolated, illuminated shops. The intensity of his inspection seemed unnatural.
"Mastiff," she told him, then grinned. " Tis not my real name, boy, but one that someone laid upon me many years ago. For better or worse, it's stuck longer with me than any man. 'Tis the name of a dog of exceptional ferocity and ugliness."
"I don't think you're ugly," the boy replied. "I think you're beautiful."
She studied his open, little-boy expression. Dim-witted, dim-sighted, or maybe just very smart, she thought.
"Can I call you Mother?" he asked hopefully, further confusing her. "You are my mother now, aren't you?"
"Sort of, I expect. Don't ask me why."
"I won't cause you any trouble." His voice was suddenly concerned, almost frightened. "I've never caused anyone any trouble, honest. I just want to be left alone."
Now what would prompt a desperate confession like that? she wondered. She decided not to pursue the matter. "I've no demands to make on ye," she assured him. "I'm a simple old woman, and I live a simple life. It pleases me. It had best please ye as well."
"It sounds nice," he admitted agreeably. "I'll do my best to help you any way I can."
"Devil knows there's plenty to do in the shop. I'm not quite as flexible as I used to be." She chuckled aloud. "Get tired before midnight now. You know, I actually need a full four hours' sleep? Yes, I think ye can be of service. You'd best be. Ye cost enough."
"I'm sorry," he said, abruptly downcast.
"Stop that. I'll have none of that in my home."
"I mean, I'm sorry that I upset you."
She let out a wheeze of frustration, knelt and supported herself with both hands locked to the shaft of the cane. It brought her down to his eye level. He stood there and gazed solemnly back at her.