"James Patrick Kelly - Fruitcake Theory" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

James Patrick Kelly: Fruitcake Theory

Bjorn is trying to tell me that the rooster isnТt dumb
as a spoon. Obtuse, maybe. Naяve, yes. Tedious, without
a doubt.
The rooster is sitting across the aisle and up two
seats, paying no attention to us. WeТre just followers.
HeТs staring out the window of the van at the snow.
"HeТs Kuvat, Maggie," says Bjorn. "Aliens think
differently than we do."
"Cranial capacity." I tap the side of my head. "Check
that skull. HeТs got room up there for half a cup of
brains, tops."
"Maybe heТs got some kind of distributed nervous
system," Bjorn says. "How else could they have built the
starship?"
"The scarecrows built the starship," I say. "The
roosters came along for the ride. You follow long enough
and itТs obvious."
"Intellectual bifurcation is just a theory."
Nevertheless, Bjorn slides down in his seat, defeated
once again. "All we know is that theyТre Kuvat, both
roosters and scarecrows." He takes out his appetite
pacifier and starts sucking at it. I donТt mean to upset
him.
The rooster starts eeking to himself.
"Eek eek eeeek, eek eek eeeek! "
He looks like a cauliflower the size of a washing
machine -- with legs. They are bird legs, to be sure,
with scaly shanks and clawed, three-toed feet. But his
body is an enormous scoop of convoluted flesh. All he
wears is the translator, a golden disk that hangs on a
cord around his neck like the Noble Prize for Stupidity.
His skin is as translucent as spilled milk. Beneath it
are coils of muscle marbled with gray fat. He has
spindly arms and his little head is mostly mouth. We
canТt see the upright ruddy flap, like a roosterТs comb,
just behind his button eyes, because tonight heТs
wearing a SantaТs cap of red felt.
Bjorn pops the appetite pacifier out of his mouth. "I
think thatТs ТJingle Bells,Т " he says excitedly. "The
eeking." He makes a note of this. Bjorn is new to the
following team. HeТs twenty-four and takes everything
too seriously, except himself. HeТs fat and blond and
sweet as a jelly donut. I really do like him; he just
hasnТt realized it yet. He brings out the mother in me.
I yawn. IТm not a night person and IТm riding in a van
at two in the morning. ItТs the roosterТs fault, of
course. ItТs December 22 and the rooster has got a bad