"Foster, Alan Dean - Flinx 1 - For Love of Mother-Not" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)
He didn't have to think it over very long. "It's a deal-Mother."
"That's settled, then." She shook his hand. The gesture brought forth a new phenomenon: his first smile. It made his tiny, lightly freckled face seem to glow, and suddenly the night seemed less chilly.
"Let's hurry," she said, struggling erect again. "I don't like being out this late, and you're not much the body-guard. Never will be, by the looks of ye, though that's no fault of yours."
"Why is it so important to be home when it's dark?" he asked, and then added uncertainly, "Is that a stupid question?"
"No, boy." She smiled down at him as she hobbled up the street. "That's a smart question. It's important to be safe at home after dark because the dead tend to multiply in direct ratio to the absence of light. Though if you're cautious and never grow overconfident and learn the ways of it, you'll find that the darkness can be your friend as well as your enemy."
"I thought so," he said firmly. "I've thought so for"-his face screwed up as he concentrated hard on something-"for as long as I can remember."
"Oh?" She was still smiling at him. "And what makes you think that it's so besides the fact I just told it to ye?"
"Because," he replied, "most of the times I can ever remember being happy were in the dark."
She pondered that as they turned the comer. The rain had lessened considerably, giving way to the mist that passed for normal air in the city. It didn't trouble her lungs, but she worried about the boy. The one thing she didn't need was a sick child. He had cost her enough already.
Her stall-home was one of many scattered through the seemingly endless marketplace. Stout shutters protected the nondescript facade, which occupied ten meters at the far end of a side street. She pressed her palm to the door lock. The sensitized plastic glowed brightly for an instant, beeped twice, and then the door opened for them.
Once inside, she shoved the door shut behind them, then automatically turned to inspect her stock to make certain nothing had disappeared in her absence. "There were racks of copper and silver wares, rare carved hardwoods for which Moth was justly renowned, well-crafted eating and drinking utensils, including many clearly designed for non-humans, cheap models of Moth itself with interrupted rings of flashy floatglitter, and various items of uncertain purpose.
Through this farrago of color and shape, the boy wandered. His eyes drank in everything, but he asked no questions, which she thought unusual.
It was in the nature of children to inquire about everything. But then, this was no ordinary child.
Toward the rear of the shop front a silver box stood on a dais. Its touch-sensitive controls connected the shop directly to the central bank of Drallar and enabled Mother Mastiff to process financial transactions for all customers, whether they came from up the street or halfway across the Commonwealth. A universal credcard allowed access to its owner's total wealth. Banks stored information; all hard currency was in general circulation.
Past the dais and the door it fronted were four rooms: a small storage chamber, a bathroom, a kitchen-dining area, and a bedroom. Mother Mastiff studied the arrangement for several minutes, then set about clearing the storage room. Ancient and long-unsold items were shoveled out onto the floor, together with cleaning equipment, clothing, canned goods, and other items. Somehow she would find room for them elsewhere.
Propped up against the far wall was a sturdy old cot. She touched a button on its side, and the device sprang to life, skittering about as it arranged itself on springy legs. Further excavation revealed a bag of support oil, which she plugged into the mattress. It was full and warm in minutes. Finally, she covered the cot with a thin thermosensitive blanket.
"This'll be your room," she told him. " Tis no palace, but 'tis yours. I know the importance of having something ye can call your own. Ye can fix up this bower however ye like."
The boy eyed her as if she had just bestowed all the treasures of Terra on him. "Thank you. Mother," he said softly. "It's wonderful."
"I sell things," she said, turning away from that radiant face. She gestured toward the storeroom out front. "The things ye saw on our way in."
"I guessed that. Do you make much money?"
"Now ye sound like the government agent back there at the platform." She smiled to show him she was teasing. "I get by. I'd much like to have a larger place than this, but at this point in my life"-she leaned her cane up against her bed as she strolled into the larger room-"it seems not likely I ever will. It does not bother me. I've had a good, full life and am content. You'll soon discover that my growls and barks are mostly show. Though not always." She patted him on the head and pointed toward the com-pact kitchen.
"Would ye like something hot to drink before we re-tire?"
"Yes, very much." Carefully, he took off his slickertic, which was dry by then. He hung it on a wall hook in his bedroom.
"We'll have to get ye some new clothes," she comment-ed, watching him from the kitchen.
"Maybe they are for ye, hut they're not for me." She pinched her nose by way of explanation.
"Oh. I understand."
"Now what would ye like to drink?"
His face brightened once again. "Tea. What kinds of tea do you have?"
"What kinds of tea do ye like?"
"All kinds."
"Then I'll choose ye one." She found the cylinder and depressed the main switch 'on its side as she filled it with water from the tap. Then she searched her store of food-stuffs.
"This is Anar Black," she told him, "all the way from Rhyinpine. Quite a journey for dead leaves to make. I think 'tis milder than Anar White, which comes from the same world but grows further down the mountain sides. I have some local honey if ye like your drink sweet. Expensive, it is. Moth's flowers are scarce save where they're grown in hothouses. This world belongs to the fungi and the trees; the bees, poor things, have a hard time of it, even those who've grown woolly coats thick enough to keep the damp and cold out. If honey's too thick for ye, I've other sweeteners."
Hearing no reply, she turned to find him lying still on the floor, a tawny, curled-up smudge of red hair and dirty old clothes. His hands were bunched beneath his cheek, cushioning his head.
She shook her head and pushed the cylinder's off but-ton. The pot sighed and ceased boiling. Bending, she got her wiry 'arms beneath him and lifted. Somehow she wrestled him onto the cot without waking him. Her hands pulled the thermal blanket up to his chin. It was programmed and would warm him quickly.
She stood there awhile, amazed at how much pleasure could be gained from so simple an activity as watching a child sleep. Then, still wondering what had come over her, she left him and made her way across to her own room, slowly removing her clothes as she walked. Before long, the last light in the rear of the little shop winked out, joining its neighbors in nightfall. Then there was only the light wind and the hiss of moisture evaporating from warm walls to break the silence of the mist-shrouded dark.
Chapter Two
The boy ate as if the previous night's dinner had been no more substantial than a distant dream. She cooked him two full breakfasts and watched as he finished every bite. When the last pachnack was gone, and the final piece of bread wolfed down, she took him into the shop.
He watched intently as she entered the combination to the metal shutters. As they rose, they admitted a world entirely different from the empty night. One moment he was staring at the dully reflective line of metal strips. "The next brought home to him all the noise, the confusion, and bustle and sights and smells of the great Drallarian marketplace; they flooded the stall, overwhelming him with their diversity and brilliance. Mother Mastiff was not a late sleeper-which was good, for the crowd would rise in tandem with the hidden sun. Not that the marketplace was ever completely deserted. There were always a few merchants whose wares benefited from the mask of night.
The boy could tell it was daytime because it had grown less dark. But the sun did not shine; it illuminated the raindrops. The morning had dawned warm, a good sign, and the moisture was still more mist than rain. A good day for business.
Mother Mastiff showed the boy around the shop, describing various items and reciting their prices and the reasons behind such pricing. She hoped to someday entrust the operation of the business to him. That would be better than having to close up every time she needed to rest or travel elsewhere. The sooner he learned, the better, especially considering the way he ate.
"I'll do everything I can, Mother," he assured her when she had concluded the brief tour.
"I know ye will, boy." She plopped down into her favorite chair, an over upholstered monstrosity covered with gemmae fur. The skins were worn down next to nothing, and the chair retained little value, but it was too comfort-able for her to part with. She watched as the boy turned to stare at the passing crowd. How quiet he is, she thought. Quiet and intense. She let him study the passers-by for a while before beckoning him closer.
"We've overlooked several things in the rush of the night, boy. One in particular."
"What's that?" he asked.
"I can't keep calling ye 'boy'. Have ye a name?"
"They call me Flinx."
| © 2025 Библиотека RealLib.org (support [a t] reallib.org) |