"Steve Perry - Matador 5 - The 97th Step" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

"You are late," his father said. He twitched the broad leather strap. The end raised
a small dust cloud where it touched the ground. The dust seemed to sparkle in the
house's big exterior HT lamps. Mwili saw the curtain move at the kitchen window.
That would be his mother, watching, even though she would have been ordered
not to.

Mwili had a valid reason, for once, but he held his tongue. Valid or not, his father
was just looking for a reason to swing the strap, and speaking before being given
leave was as good an excuse as any. He merely nodded. True. He was late. He
could not argue that.

His father said, "You were due back from the supply station four hours ago."

Again, Mwili nodded. His father would always state the obvious, as if he were
certain God Himself hung on every word, checking it for accuracy.
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 Perry, Steve - The 97th Step




"Jesu knows how much I have tried to do his work with you, boy." The man shook
his head. "And no matter how much I pray, you are always found wanting. I
cannot understand why He trials me this way. I have been a faithful servant, I
observe the Holy Rules, and yet you task me at every turn."

Mafuta spared the heavens a glance, as if expecting a direct reproach from God for
his complaints. He was quick to qualify them. "But it is not for man to understand
the ways of God. A man must accept his lot and strive for perfection in spite of it.
Such is the Rule."

Mwili nodded tiredly. "Such is the Rule," he echoed softly. Failure to speak that
would gain him a glare and a fast slash from the whistling strap. It seemed like
everything brought the strap. It was one of his earliest memories, and a constant
part of his daily life. His mates all suffered under the heavy hands and belts of
their parents, but that made bearing it no easier. None of them seemed to get it as
often as he did.

"Why, son, are you tardy this night?"

Finally. "The flitter broke down, Baba. The coil burned out again."

His father stared at him, not speaking.

It was all Mwili could do to stand there at attention, waiting for his father to make
his decision. The Jesu-damned flitter, old when Mwili was born, was a bucket of
junk. He had rewound the burned coil twice already, the last time only a week
past. It had taken half a day on the shop lathe, and his father had begrudged him
both the time and the copper for the wire. The flitter needed a new coil, it needed a