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

from the big overhead mirrors. The engineers would have had to readjust the tilt of one of the orbital
mirrorsтАФeven alter its orbitтАФbut of course no expense could be spared where the Emir was concerned.
The overhead mirrors had been washed sometime during the night, and the multiplied images of the
golfball sun were hard and bright, free of the film of dust that ordinarily gave the Street of the Well such a
dingy appearance by daylight.
He looked down into the courtyard and saw Mr. Faqoosh in his tatty robes leading a small band of the
faithful in the morning prayer. Sandals and shoes were lined up in a neat row and prayer rugs were already
spread out. Hamid-Jones stepped back from the window so that the mullah would not see him.
The muezzin's call made a noise like a trapped wasp. Hamid-Jones started to turn it off, then the sound of
the response from the worshippers in the courtyard weakened his resolve. He per-formed his ablutions in
one minute flat, jammed his keffia down over his head, checked the current location of Mecca in the
miniaturized zijтАФincidentally discovering that Mr. Faqoosh and his flock were facing the wrong wayтАФand
was down on his knees, his forehead touching the bare floor, in time to catch up.
Finished, he scowled at his communicator, and this time he did turn it off. By Allah, today was a day off,
and he was going to enjoy the morning, at least, without anyone bothering him!
He cast a glance at his bed, but he was too wide-awake now to go back to it. He fixed himself a
breakfast of tea, bread, and leftover fool from one of the fast-food places in the suq, reheated on the little
alcohol stove, and sat down to eat.
He found after a few bites that he wasn't very hungry. He pushed the plate aside. Mr. Fahti had been
uncomfortably close to the mark the previous night. Perhaps love did affect the ap-petite.
Or perhaps it was only a sense of hopelessness that was rob-bing him of the pleasure of the day. He
cursed himself for an idiot. Nothing could come of foolish yearnings; Mr. Fahti had been right there, too.
He moped around half the morning, hearing the crowds in the street grow steadily noisier and the sound
of hired musicians drifting in from adjoining courtyards where various private cel-ebrations were in
progress. There was nothing on television except respectful commentators droning on about the day's
prep-arations, mullahs preaching, shots of crowded mosques, and long shots of the Martian surface looking
toward the candy min-arets of the New Palace, where the big event was going to take place. Below, from
the kitchen and dining hall, he could hear the clatter of utensils and the scurrying feet of servants as
to-night's feast was readied. Hamid-Jones grimaced. He had better leave the house or he'd be invited to
that one, too. The prospect of having to endure the stultifying company of the other lodgers for endless
hours of ritual conversation, and then being charged for it by the landlord, did not appeal to him at all.
He rummaged through his closet for a seldom-worn djel-labaтАФeveryone outside would be dressed in their
finest, and he did not want to be conspicuousтАФand sat down on the bed to put on a suitable pair of shoes.
From outside came the sound of footsteps on the stone staircase, accompanied by scuffling and laughter. A
moment later they were knocking on his door.
"Ya Abdul, open up!"
It was no good pretending he wasn't home; the television was still on. He turned down the sound and
opened the door. Ja'far and Feisel tumbled inside, still horsing around.
"Still here? Feisel thought we might catch you. We thought we'd stop by and pick you up. What are you
waiting for?" Ja'far's eyes fell on the djellaba, Hamid-Jones's Friday best, laid out on the bed. "We're just on
our way to collect Rashid, and then we're going to the Upper Promenade. That's where the best
entertainments areтАФthey're having a regular fechta, with acro-bats, stick fighters, skits, and there'll be a
feast laid on by the Vizier. Pigeon pie, stuffed lamb for everybodyтАФno expense spared!"
"And afterward," Feisel put in as he and Ja'far winked and nudged each other, "we may even visit a
house of women that Rashid's heard about. He swears he's already been twice, but I think he's still working
up his nerve."
"Uh . . . thanks, but I thought I'd just stay home and watch it on television."
"What?" Ja'far's tone was incredulous. "Don't be a stick-in-the-mud. That's the trouble with you, ya
Abdul. All work, no fun. Loosen up! What's life for?"
"Besides," Feisel pointed out, "there'll be big screens set up at all the public feastsтАФthe mosques, too. So