"George R. R. Martin - Portraits of His Children" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

"This is our baby I'm carrying," she said. She put a hand on her swollen stomach, as if Cantling needed a
visual reminder.

He was tired of arguing. He was tired of discussing.

He was tired of being interrupted. He leaned back in his chair. "How long have you been carrying the
baby?"

Helen looked baffled. "You know. Seven months now. And a week."

Cantling leaned forward and slapped the stack of manuscript pages piled up beside his typewriter. "Well,
I've been carrying this baby for three damned years now. This is the fourth fucking draft, and the last
one. He was named Edward on the first draft, and on the second draft, and on the third draft, and he's
damn well going to be named Edward when the goddamned book comes out. He'd been named Edward
for years before that night of fond memory when you decided to surprise me by throwing away your
diaphragm, and thereby got yourself knocked up."
"It's not fair," she complained. "He's only a character. This is our baby."

"Fair? You want fair? OK. I'll make it fair. Our firstborn son will get named Edward. How's that for
fair?"

Helen's face softened. She smiled shyly.

He held up a hand before she had a chance to say anything. "Of course, I figure I'm only about a month
away from finishing this damn thing, if you ever stop interrupting me. You've got a little further to go. But
that's as fair as I can make it. You pop before I type THE END and you got the name. Otherwise, my
baby hereтАФ" he slapped the manuscript again "isтАФfirst-born."

"You can't," she started.

Cantling resumed his typing.

"My first-born," Richard Cantling said.

"In the flesh," Dunnahoo said. He raised his beer bottle in salute, and said, "To fathers and sons, hey!" He
drained it with one long swallow and flipped the bottle across the room end over end. It smashed in the
fireplace.

"This is a dream," Cantling said.

Dunnahoo gave him a raspberry. "Look, old man, face it, I'm here." He jumped to his feet. "The prodigal
returns," he said, bowing. "So where the fuck is the fatted calf and all that shit? Least you coulda done
was order a pizza."

"I'll play the game," Cantling said. "What do you want from me?"

Dunnahoo grinned. "What? Who, me? Who the fuck knows? I never knew what I wanted, you know
that. Nobody in the whole fucking book knew what they wanted."

"That was the point," Cantling said.