"Walter M. Miller - The Soul Empty Ones" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miller Walter M)

warrior; but Falon wondered if the way of obedience was any holier than the other ways. The Natani had no high regard for it.
Ea-Daner had no father, because the old man had gone away with his war knife when he became a burden on the tribe. But Falon
had always obeyed, not out of respect for the law, but out of admiration for the man. He sighed and shrugged.
"Very well, then, Ea-Daner, you shall observe your custom. And I will go with you to the places of the invader."
"You will not fight with the sons of men!" his father grumbled sullenly. "You will not speak of it again."
Falon's eyes flared heatedly. "You would let a woman go to be killed and perhaps devoured by the invaders?"
"She is a Natani. And it is the right of the sons of men to do as they will with her, or with us. I even dislike hiding from them.
They created our fathers, and they made them so that their children would also be in the image of manтАФin spite of the glow-curse
that lived in the ground and made the sons of animals unlike their fa-thers."
"Nevertheless, IтАФ"
"You will not speak of it again!"
Falon stared at the angry oldster, whose steely eyes barked com-mands at him. Falon shivered. Respect for the aged was
engrained in the fibers of his being. But Daner's death was fresh in his mind. And he was no longer in the valleys of his people,
where the invad-ers had landed their skyboats. Was the way of the tribe more im-portant than the life of the tribe? If one believed
in the godsтАФthen, yes.

Taking a deep breath, Falon stood up. He glanced down at the old man. The steel-blue eyes were biting into his face. Falon
turned his back on them and walked slowly across the room. He sat beside the girl and faced his father calmly. It was open
rebellion.
"I am no longer a man of the valley," he said quietly. "Nor am I to be a Natani," he added for the benefit of the girl. "I shall have
no ways but the ways of embracing the friend and killing the en-emy."
"Then it is my duty to kill my son," said the scarred warrior. He came to his feet and drew his war knife calmly.
Falon sat frozen in horror, remembering how the old man had wept when the invaders took Falon's mother to their food pens.
The old one advanced, crouching slightly, waiting briefly for his son to draw. But Falon remained motionless.
 "You may have an instant in which to draw," purred the old-ster. "Then I shall kill you unarmed."
Falon did nothing. His father lunged with a snarl, and the knife's steel sang a hissing arc. Its point dug into the stool where the
youth had been sitting. Falon stood crouched across the room, still weaponless. The girl watched with a slight frown.
"So, you choose to flee, but not fight," the father growled.
Falon said nothing. His chest rose and fell slowly, and his eyes flickered over the old one's tough and wiry body, watching for
muscular hints of another lunge. But the warrior was crafty. He re-laxed suddenly, and straightened. Reflexively, Falon mirrored
the sudden unwinding of tension. The elder was upon him like a cat, twining his legs about Falon's, and encircling his throat with a
brawny arm.
Falon caught the knife-thrust with his forearm, then managed to catch his father's wrist. Locked together, they crashed to the
floor. Falon felt hot hate panting in his face. His only desire was to free himself and flee, even to the forest.
They struggled in silence. With a strength born of the faith that a man must be stronger than his sons, the elder pressed the
knife deeper toward Falon's throat. With a weakness born of despair, Falon found himself unable to hold it away. Their embrace
was slippery with wetness from the wound in his forearm. And the arm was failing.
"I . . . offer you . . . as a holy . . . sacrifice," panted the oldster, as the knife began scratching skin.
"Father . . . don'tтАФ" Then he saw Ea-Daner standing over the old man's shoulder. She was lifting a war club.
He closed his eyes.
The sharp crack frightened and sickened him. The knife clat-tered away from his throat, and his father's
body went limp.
Slowly, he extricated himself from the tangle, and surveyed the oldster's head. The scalp was split, and the
gray hair sogging with slow blood.
"You killed him!" he accused.
The girl snorted. "He's not dead. I didn't hit him hard. Feel his skull. It's not broken. And he's breathing."
Falon satisfied himself that she spoke the truth. Then he climbed to his feet, grumbling unhappily. He
looked down at the old man and deeply regretted his rebelliousness. The father's love of the law was greater
than his love for a son. But there was no un-doing it now. The elder was committed to kill him, even if he
re-tracted. He turned to the girl.