"Walter M. Miller - The Best of Walter M. Miller" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miller Walter M)

looking out through the fish bowl canopy.
It's impossible," I told them.
"


They showed me a dozen pictures of moppets with LTR-guns, moppets in time-warp suits, moppets
wearing Captain Chronos costumes, moppets falling free in space, and moppets playing Time-Pirate in
the park.
"I'm sorry, but it's impossible," I insisted.
"We'll be glad to pay something for it, if . . ."
The kid's sick, if you must know," I snapped. "He can't do it, and that's that, so forget about it."
"


Maybe when he's feeling better . . ?"
"


"He won't be feeling better," Cleo interrupted, voice tense, with a catch in it. "Now please leave!"
They left, with Cleo herding them out onto the porch. I heard them apologizing, and Cleo softened,
and began to explain. That was a mistake.
A week later, while we were still drinking our coffee at the dinner table, the doorbell rang. Cleo,
expecting an answer to her recent wire to some South American clinic, left the table, went to answer it,
and promptly screamed.
I dropped my cup with a crash and ran to the living room with a butcher knife, then stopped dead still.
It stood there in the doorway with a stunned expression on its face, gaping at Cleo who had collapsed
in a chair. It wore a silver uniform with jack-boots, black-and-red cape, and a weird helmet with antenna
protruding from it. It had a lantern jaw and a big, meaty, benign contenance.

"I'm awfully sorry, " it boomed in a gentle deep-rich voice. "We just drove over from the studio, and I
didn't take time to change ..."
"Ulk!" said Cleo.
I heard footsteps at the head of the stairs behind me, then a howl from Kenny who had been getting
ready for bed, after being helped upstairs.
"Captain Chronos!"
Bare feet machine-gunned down the stairs and came to a stop at a respectful distance from the idol.
"GgaaaaAAAWWWSSSShhhh! " Kenny timidly walked half-way around him, looking him up and
down. "Geee ... Gaaawwssshh! "
Cleo fanned herself with a newspaper and recovered slowly. I tossed the butcher-knife on a magazine
stand and mumbled something apologetic. There were two of them: Chronos and the producer, a small
suave man in a busi-ness suit. The latter drew me aside to explain. It developed that the photographers
had explained to the boss, who had explained to the client, who had mentioned it to the agency, who had
returned the fan letter to the producer with a note. It would appear that Captain Chronos, for the sake of
nutritious and delicious Fluffy Crunkles, made it his habit to comfort the afflicted, the crippled, and the
dying, if it were convenient and seemed somehow advantageous. He also visited the children's wards of
hospitals, it seemed.
"This on the level, or for publicity?"
On the level."
"