"Foster,.Alan.Dean.-.Splinter.Of.The.Mind's.Eye" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

"He didn't ask any questions," the Princess murmured excitedly, looking back up at Luke.

"No. This might be easier than I thought." He was beginning to feel something like hope. Then his expression darkened.

"What is it, Luke?" He gestured, and she turned to look toward the bar.

A large, hulking miner was being feebly assailed by something human-sized, skinny, and covered completely with light green fur. It had wide, nocturnal eyes and a crest of higher, darker fur running from the crown of its head down the middle of its back. A simply worked skin of some unknown animal was wrapped about its pelvic region and several jangling necklaces adorned with primitive decorations swung from the neck.

Presently the creature began making mewing, begging noises in a high, rippling voice. The alien singsong was coated with an unmistakable hint of desperation.

"Vease, sir," it begged, "smav drink? Vickerman, vickerman?"

The big miner met this pitiful request by putting out a broad foot and kicking the native in the face. Luke winced and looked away. The Princess glanced at him.

"What's wrong, Luke?"

"I can't stand to see anything abused like that," he muttered, "human or animal or alien." He faced her curiously. "How can you watch it?"

"I saw my whole world, several million people, destroyed," she responded with chilling matter-of-factness. "Nothing mankind does surprises me anymore, except that anyone could still be surprised by it." She turned her clinical gaze back to the scene at the bar.

"Bootop!" the miner bellowed at the aborigine, while his companions chortled among themselves. "Bootop, ves?"

Its head twitching in what seemed to be an unnatural action, the whining, pleading alien stared up at the man, wiping the blood from its face. "Vickerman, vickerman?"

"Yeah, vickerman," the miner admitted, tiring of the game a little. "Bootop."

Without further prompting the native dropped on its belly. An unexpectedly long, snake-like tongue darted out and began to lick the grime and mud from the man's boots.

"I'm going to be sick," Luke whispered, barely audible. The Princess merely shrugged.

"We have our devils and our angels, Luke. You have to be ready to handle both."

When she looked back to the bar the native had finished its demeaning task and was holding up cupped hands anxiously. "Tend vickerman, now, now?"

"Yeah, sure," the miner said. Reaching onto the bar he picked up an oddly formed bottle and touched a button on its side. Part of the bottle's upper section filled with a dark liquid. It stopped filling with a click.

Turning to face the expectant native, the miner tilted the bottle over, spilling the thick red liquor onto the floor instead of in the cupped hands. While the men and women at the bar enjoyed their final laugh at the poor creature's expense, it dropped to a prone position and that amazing tongue flicked in and out like a frog's, to lap up the liquor before it retreated into cracks and depressions in the floor.

Unable to watch further, Luke let his curious gaze wander around the large, smoke-filled chamber. Now he saw more of the green-furred bipeds moving about. Many were begging with an air of frantic hopefulness, others engaged in performing some menial task.

"I don't recognize this race."

"Neither do I," the Princess admitted. "They must be native to this world. The Empire isn't noted for the gentleness with which it treats non-allied aborigines."

Luke was about to comment, but she made a quieting gesture. The attendant had arrived with their food.

The meat had a peculiar color, the vegetables more so. But everything was hot and of good flavor. Three spigots emerged flower-like from the center of their table. Filling his glass from one, he sampled the contents expectantly. "Not bad."

Meanwhile the Princess tasted her meat gingerly. Her mouth wrinkled as she chewed, swallowed. "Not what I'd order if I had a choiceЕ"