"Kevin O'Donnel Jr. - The Journeys of McGill Feighan 01 - Caverns" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Jr Kevin)

food-spattered white jacket, he bent forward and tipped Schwedeker over
his shoulder. He straightened easily, though he growled at the stench, and
said, "Take you up the back way; no sense making the customers puke. The
bug's got a bank up there anyway."
Blood pooled in Schwedeker's head, blood and ache and tearing sound.
Though he wanted to resent his helplessness, his repulsiveness, he could
only be grateful. This dish machine technician could have called the cops,
who would have prolonged his agony for unendurable hours. Yet he hadn't.
The broad shoulder pressed his stomach to his spine; his head and free
arm bounced and swayed with every step up the metal grate stairs. Their
single Shiva-shadow shortened gradually into sharper focus, tightened into a
multilimbed puddle at the man's feet, then preceded them down the narrow
corridor. Knuckles on plastic added their rap-tap to the inner din. Another
few jounces and his feet hit hard floor.
A high buzzing sound, like a mosquito chorus, said, "Beefo. One carries
this kind out. Not in."
"He's a Flinger." He braced Schwedeker against the rough, unfinished
wall. "Says he's got money." His scarred hands parted the grimy coat to
reveal the tunic. "I got to get back to work."
"I see," whirred the voice. "Thank you. Leave him."
"Right." The door closed and an electro-lock hummed to life.
Schwedeker forced himself upright, and squinted at the pearl-gray alien.
A man-sized millipede, it smelled like a damp library. Two of its faceted red
eyes scrutinized him; the other two guided the arms that were lifting the
bank-plate. Schwedeker licked his thumb, wiped it on the front of his coat,
and held it ready. "What's your fee?" he croaked.
"One hundred," replied the Occleftian. "No haggling."
"All right, all right!" He jabbed his thumb at the shiny plate. At contact,
he said, "Debit me one hundred dollars; credit them toтАФ"
"тАФArkorninu X83," finished the millipede. When the green light glowed
to indicate completion of the transaction, it shimmied its mid-legs in the
gesture of mild surprise. Not astonishmentтАФit had lived in Cleveland too
many years to be astonished by anything a Terran did. "Please," it said,
more polite now that it had been paid, "be seated."
Turning around, Schwedeker slumped to the bare concrete floor and put
his head between his knees. Dozens of tiny pincers pulled his coat down his
back, then reached through the tunic to massage his spine. Others fastened
onto his neck; still others nibbled on his skull. He closed his eyes. For the
five thousandth time, desensitization began.
First came the colors, sheets of vivid translucence flaring behind his
eyelids. Red rivers; orange aurorae. Forks of yellow lightning slashed
diagonally and their afterimages faded slowly. Green mountains humped up
from the flame-burnt ground. Blue grass sprouted on their rugged slopes,
flourished, and deepened into indigo when night pulled a violet blanket
over everything.
"Aaaaahhhh," said Schwedeker.
"Yess," hissed Arkorninu X83, digging its hundreds of digits into his slack
skin, "yess, yess."
Smells percolated through his nostrils, first the real ones, his own
rankness, the Occleftian's mildew, then the memories, of lemons and ozone