"Donald Moffitt - Mechanical Sky 1 - Crescent in the Sky" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moffitt Donald)

should make a straightforward offer to her kinsmen."
Hamid-Jones was saved from having to reply by the arrival of the landlord, who planted himself in their
midst, looked them over sourly, and said in Terran style, "Ayamak sa'ida, ya jamas. Happy holiday."
The others inclined their heads and returned the greeting. "Good evening, ya hajji Araf ibn Zayd." "
Salaam aleikum." "Messakum, Allah bil khair."
Mr. Najib became noticeably less expansive; he could not compete with ibn Zayd's status as a hajji,
though he had been telling people for years that he had long had the passage money to Earth put aside and
that he intended to make the pilgrimage as soon as the rug factory could spare him.
Ibn Zayd rocked on his heels for a moment, sucking on a tooth. He was a sallow, liverish individual,
narrow as a slat except for a hard round belly that made a bulge under a crimson cummerbund. Finally he
mustered a grimace that passed for a smile and said, "On this happy occasion, I would be honored if you
gentlemen would be my guests at a repast to celebrate al-Id al-Rass, the Feast of the Head, which the
Emir has pro-claimed."
To punctuate his words, his servant, Saleh, bustled up and began clearing away the plates of
refreshments.
"We would be delighted, hajji," Mr. Fahti said. Mr. Najib quickly put on an ingratiating smile and echoed,
"Yes, of course, hajji." Mr. Daud, with a furtive glance at the quarters where he kept his wife secreted,
accepted with alacrity, and the others followed suit.
"And you, ya Abdul?" the landlord said, looking down his nose at Hamid-Jones.
"Thank you, hajji, no," Hamid-Jones stammered."I'm not hungry. I stopped for a bite at the suq on my
way home."
The landlord studied him with pursed lips, saying nothing. Hamid-Jones was sure that ibn Zayd knew
about the strictly illegal alcohol burner he kept in his nonhousekeeping room, on which he cooked an
occasional frugal bachelor meal to save money, and was only waiting for the opportune moment to charge
him for it.
Mr. Fahti came to his rescue."Our young friend has no ap-petite. He is in love."
He had to endure another small round of gentle teasing after that. "Ya Abdul, you should eat to keep up
your strength," Mr. Najib winked.
"I can have the slave girl bring you up some tea and falafel later," ibn Zayd said, unsmiling. "No charge."
"Please don't bother, hajji," Hamid-Jones said hastily. He made his escape, feeling the eyes of Mr. Fahti
and the others on him as he crossed the rocky courtyard and climbed the outside stairs to his room.




CHAPTER 2

The sun slammed Hamid-Jones across the eyes, and he awoke with a start. A glance at the window
showed him that he had forgotten to close the curtains the night before, and a preliminary buzzing at his
wrist told him that he had also ne-glected to turn off his communicator. With a groan, he turned over and
tried to squeeze his eyes shut.
"Prayer is better than sleep," the little voice exhorted, as if reading his thoughts. He punched savagely at
the button, and the muezzin's miniature face disappeared from the tiny holo display, to be replaced by an
image of the time. He squinted at it Wearily. Something was wrong; dawn should have been at least
another hour away.
Then he remembered; it was Decapitation Day. It must have been arranged for the sun to rise early this
morning, in order to give an extra measure of time for all the festive activities.
 He padded barefoot to the window. People were already mov-ing about in the Street of the Well, which
was just visible over the lowest part of the courtyard wall. He raised his eyes to the overhanging tent of
rock and, yes, there indeed was the street's piece of sun, piped down from the surface and blazing pinkly