"Reed-TheSingingMarine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Kit)

he couldn't. "I'm supposed to take the rest, but it's only money."

The lemon eyes glimmer like paired moons.

"Money isn't everything." The song is back; he can feel the leaves of the linden
tree stirring overhead and one more time replays out the perpetual round of
death and survival. He is afraid of repeating it into eternity. He slams the lid
and looks at the dog. "Money isn't anything." He looks up, puzzled: the box.
"But neither is fire."

There is a stir; blacker than shadow, even blacker because of the neon eyes, the
creature nudges him again. Its great plumed tail is wagging.

"Good boy." He tries to pat its head; the dense fur is so deep that his hand
won't stop sinking into it. "You keep it. But this." Studying the tinderbox, he
turns it over in his hand. "I wonder what she wants with it."

There is seismic thunder -- a growl so profound that he forgets the eyes. Then
the animal becomes a fury of deep fur and warm flesh and compressed muscles.
Planting its head in his chest, it pushes the singing Marine to the edge of the
little niche and to his astonishment, nudges him so he falls back into the
tunnel. Its growl makes the lights flicker. Without knowing how he knows to do
this, the Marine slips the tinderbox deep into his fatigues, storing it in a
spot nobody can reach without his express permission. Then he looks up at the
great moon eyes. Unlike most animals, this one meets his stare; he feels himself
disappearing into the glow. Trapped though it is behind invisible bars, the
brute makes a low purr, almost like a tiger's. The tail moves like a flight of
banners. He doesn't know what it's trying to tell him. Then he does; it is
amazing.

Therefore when the Marine comes up from underground and the beautiful woman
slips both arms around his neck and thanks him, he is wary. When he realizes
she's patting the many pockets of his fatigues, he is even more wary, but he's
not surprised when she says, "You didn't take any money."

He shakes his head.

"But you got the box."

"I did," he says.

"Where is it?"

He only shakes his head.

"I see." She is already fumbling in the depths of her black gauze skirt; she
pulls something out of her pocket. Because they are beyond apologies or
explanations she says, "Gerda didn't die in a rockfall, you killed her," and as
she brings out the knife and raises it high he sees that she looks enough like
the dead murderess to be her sister.