"Heinlein, Robert A- Glory Road" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

Not anything. There wasn't a prayer that I could adlib a poem of thanks, a graceful compliment to my host--m Nevian. Hell, I couldn't have done it in English.
Star's eyes were on me. She looked gravely confident.
That did it. I didn't risk Nevian; I couldn't even remember how to ask my way to the men's room. So I gave it to 'em, both barrels, in English. Vachel Lindsay's "Congo."
As much of it as I could remember, say about four pages. What I did give them was that compelling rhythm and rhyme scheme double-talking and faking on any fluffs and really slamming it on "beating on a table with the handle of a broom! Boom! Boom! Boomlay boom!" and the orchestra caught the spirit and we rattled the dishes.
The applause was wonderful and Miss Tiffany grabbed my ankle and kissed it.
So I gave them Mr. E. A. Foe's "Bells" for dessert. Jocko kissed me on my left eye and slobbered on my shoulder.
Then Star stood up and explained, in scansion and rhyme, that in my own land, in my own language, among my own people, warriors and artists all, I was as famous a poet as I was a hero (Which was true. Zero equals zero), and that I had done them the honor of composing my greatest work, in the jewels of my native tongue, a fitting thanks to the Doral and house Doral for Hospitality of roof, of table, of bed--and that she would, in time, do her poor best to render my music into their language.
Between us we got the Oscar.
Then they brought in the piece de resistance, a carcass roasted whole and carried by four men. From the size and shape it might have been roast peasant under glass. But it was dead and it smelled wonderful and I ate a lot of it and sobered up. After the roast there were only eight or nine other things, soups and sherbets and similar shilly-shallying. The party got looser and people didn't stay at their own tables. One of my girls fell asleep and spilled my wine cup and about then I realized that most of the crowd had gone.
Doral Letva, flanked by two girls, led me to my chambers and put me to bed. They dimmed the lights and withdrew while I was still trying to phrase a gallant good night in their language.
They came back, having shucked all jewelry and other encumbrances and posed at my bedside, the Three Graces. I had decided that the younger ones were mama's daughters. The older girl was maybe eighteen, full ripe, and a picture of what mama must have been at that age; the younger one seemed five years younger, barely nubile, as pretty for her own age and quite self-conscious. She blushed and dropped her eyes when I looked at her. But her sister stared back with sultry eyes, boldly provocative.
Their mother, an arm around each waist, explained simply but in rhyme that I had honored their roof and their table--and now their bed. What was a Hero's pleasure? One? Or two? Or all three?
I'm chicken. We know that. If it hadn't been that little sister was about the size of the little brown sisters who had scared me in the past, maybe I could have shown aplomb.
But, hell, those doors didn't close. Just arches. And Jocko me bucko might wake up anytime; I didn't know where he was. I won't say I've never bedded a married woman nor a man's daughter in his own house--but I've followed American cover-up conventions in such matters. This flat-footed proposition scared me worse than the Horned Goats. I mean "Ghosts."
I struggled to put my decision in poetic language.
I didn't manage it but I put over the idea of negative,
The little girl started to bawl and fled. Her sister looked daggers, snorted. "Hero!" and went after her. Mama just looked at me and left.
She came back in about two minutes. She spoke very formally, obviously exercising great control, and prayed to know if any woman in this house had met with the Hero's favor? Her name, please? Or could I describe her? Or would I have them paraded so that I might point her out?
I did my best to explain that, were a choice to be made, she herself would be my choice--but that I was tired and wished to sleep alone.
Letva blinked back tears, wished me a hero's rest, and left a second time, even faster. For an instant I thought she was going to slap me.
Five seconds later I got up and tried to catch her. But she was gone, the gallery was dark.
I fell asleep and dreamt about the Cold Water Gang. They were even uglier than Rufo had suggested and they were trying to make me eat big gold nuggets all with the eyes of Elmer.
Chapter 9

Rufo shook me awake. "Boss! Get up! Right now!"
I buried my head in the covers. "Go way!" My mouth tasted of spoiled cabbage, my head buzzed, and my ears were on crooked.
"Right now! She says to."
I got up. Rufo was dressed in our Merry Men clothes and wearing sword, so I dressed the same way and buckled on mine. My valettes were not in sight, nor my borrowed finery. I stumbled after Rufo into the great dining hall. There was Star, dressed to travel, and looking grim. The fancy furnishings of the night before were gone; it was as bleak as an abandoned barn. A bare table was all, and on it a joint of meat, cold in congealed grease and a knife beside it.
I looked at it without relish. "What's that?"
"Your breakfast, if you want it. But I shall not stay under this roof and eat cold shoulder." It was a tone, a manner, I had never heard from her.
Rufo touched my sleeve. "Boss. Let's get out of here. Now."
So we did. Not a soul was in sight, indoors or out, not even children or dogs. But three dashing steeds were waiting. Those eight-legged tandem ponies, I mean, the horse version of a dachshund, saddled and ready to go. The saddle rigs were complex; each pair of legs had a leather yoke over it and the load was distributed by poles flexing laterally, one on each side, and mounted on this was a chair with a back, a padded seat, and arm rests. A tiller rope ran to each armrest.
A lever on the left was both brake and accelerator and I hate to say how suggestions were conveyed to the beast. However, the "horses" didn't seem to mind.
They weren't horses. Their heads were slightly equine but they had pads rather than hoofs and were omnivores, not hayburners. But you grow to like these beasties. Mine was black with white points--beautiful. I named her "Ars Longa." She had soulful eyes.
Rufo lashed my bow and quiver to a baggage rack behind my chair and showed me how to get aboard, adjust my seat belt, and get comfortable with feet on foot rests rather than stirrups and my back supported--as comfy as first-class seats in an airliner. We took off fast and hit a steady pace of ten miles an hour, single-footing (the only gait longhorses have) but smoothed by that eight-point suspension so that it was like a car on a gravel road.
Star rode ahead, she hadn't spoken another word. I tried to speak to her but Rufo touched my arm. "Boss, don't," he said quietly. "When She is like this, all you can do is wait."
Once we were underway, Rufo and I knee to knee and Star out of earshot ahead, I said "Rufo, what in the world happened?"
He frowned. "We'll never know. She and the Doral had a row, that's clear. But best we pretend it never happened."
He shut up and so did I. Had Jocko been obnoxious to Star? Drunk he certainly was and amorous he might have been. But I couldn't visualize Star not being able to handle a man so as to avoid rape without hurting his feelings.
That led to further grim thoughts. If the older sister had come in alone--If Miss Tiffany hadn't passed out--If my valette with the fiery hair had showed up to undress me as I had understood she would--Oh hell!
Presently Rufo eased his seat belt, lowered his back rest and raised his foot rests to reclining position, covered his face with a kerchief and started to snore. After a while I did the same; it had been a short night, no breakfast, and I had a king-size hangover. My "horse" didn't need any help; the two held position on Star's mount.
When I woke I felt better, aside from hunger and thirst. Rufo was still sleeping; Star's steed was still fifty paces ahead. The countryside was still lush, and ahead perhaps a half-mile was a house--not a lordly manor out a farmhouse. I could see a well sweep and thought of moss-covered buckets, cool and wet and reeking of typhoid--well, I had had my booster shots in Heidelberg; I wanted a drink. Water, I mean. Better yet, beer--they made fine beer hereabouts.
Rufo yawned, put away his kerchief, and raised his seat. "Must have dozed off," he said with a silly grin.
"Rufo, you see that house?"
"Yes. What about it?"
"Lunch, that's what. I've gone far enough on an empty stomach. And I'm so thirsty that I could squeeze a stone and drink the whey from it."
"Then best you do so."
"Huh?"
"Milord, I'm sorry--I'm thirsty, too--but we aren't stopping there. She wouldn't like it."
"She wouldn't, eh? Rufo, let me set you straight. Just because milady Star is in a pet is no reason for me to ride all day with no food or water. You do as you see fit; I'm stopping for lunch. Uh, do you have any money on you? Local money?"