"Jacqueline Lichtenberg - Molt Brother" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lichtenberg Jacqueline)

"Just allow me a moment," Madlain pleaded, approach-ing Arshel cautiously. "Arshel, whether Dennis lives or dies,
you're a Lakely now, and you always will be. You won't go nameless to your grave no matter what happens now."
They took her away then, stumbling because of the sear-ing hunger cramps. When she was alone, she thought of
Madlain Lakely standing in the square corridor, her brown hands smoothing back the white hair thinly plastered over
her skull, and she knew what the human must be feeling.
She's given me the name to keep. I will live up to it. On that wave of emotion, venom came easily, but she had to force
her hand to her own venom sack. Three times she failed. But on the fourth try, at the first touch of her own fingers on
the sensitive skin, the voiding reflex was triggered, sending the thick yellow fluid through her fangs in painful spurts,
setting every gland to a dry aching such as she'd never known before. In the end, she was almost unable to stop it
long enough to devour the large, tender chunks of meat they had provided for her hunger.
Arshel moved into the Lakely home the day they re-leased Dennis from the hospital. The family had rented a lovely
kren dwelling on a hilltop overlooking the ocean in-stead of building a human-style house. She and Dennis took over
the half of the house normally used by indwelling mates, and so they had their own sleeping rooms, studies, and a
kitchen.
Life regained a smooth rhythm of school, work on the dig, and long, lazy evenings spent with Dennis on the beach or
at their private hatching pond. Soon, though, Ar-shel found it harder and harder to move about.

One morning, without fanfare, she was in molt. Dis-appointingly, it was no different from any childhood molt with her
surmother. Dennis spent the whole day by her side, alternately expressing her molt-venom and laving it carefully over
her splitting skin.
His hands were attentive and gentle. His touch was so different from her surmother's experienced firmness, yet she felt
none of the deep pleasure she had expected from a bhirhir. She felt secure enough during her moments of helpless
squirming and twitching as her body reflexively shucked the old skin. The raw shock of air on her new skin was deftly
eased by the coating of venom he applied, but there was no real pleasure in that, either.
As Arshel lay exhausted from the ordeal, she realized that she had indeed grown up. The illusions of childhood were
gone forever. There was no reason to be disappointed, for this was reality. It was as good as anybody ever had.
Shortly after she recovered, the standings of the graduat-ing class were posted. She walked home proudly beside her
bhirhir, knowing that so many eyes now followed her and that so many now were thinking: So, Arshel the baby is
bhirhir to the number two student in the class. Surely some of them had learned not to underestimate anyone ever
again.
But even over dinner, in the privacy of their own apart-ment, Dennis refused to share her delight over his
achieve-ment. He picked at his food, and when the intercom ticked quietly for attention, he jerked to his feet as if stung
and keyed the relay with a stiff finger. His voice squeaked as he said, "Yes?"
"Son, I'd like to speak to you in my office right away."
"Yes, sir."
Nunin Lakely rarely put in an appearance at home in the evening. He had not even visited his son in the hospital, nor
had Dennis expected him to attend graduation. Arshel had been puzzled over this, unconsciously expecting a father to
be like a surmother. But everyone else seemed to take Nunin's absorption in the dig's affairs as normal.
Dennis said, straightening his shirt, "You'd better wait here."
She caught at his arm. "I'm your bhirhir," she insisted.
He sighed. "Well, let's not keep him waiting."
They passed through the family area with its central hatching pond and on into the other half of the house. Meant for
the dwelling of bhirhirn, their relatives, and children, this side of the house was larger than the visiting mate's
apartment. Dennis led the way through the atrium with its gaily splashing fountain, across the reception room where
windows overlooked the sea, and down a narrow corridor to a sleeping room that had been converted into Nunin
Lakely's office.
Several computer terminals lined one wall. His desk was banked with monitor screens and an interstellar
com-munications tuner. As they entered, Lakely sat rocking back in his chair. The only window in the room was
shut-tered tightly.
Dennis stopped in the small space before the desk, his shoulders and back stiff. There were no other chairs in the small