"William Sleator - Interstellar Pig" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sleator William)

"But can't you just tell me the name of it?" I said, feeling a bit wounded.

"It's called Interstellar Pig," Zena said tartly. "We'd ask you to play, but
we're in the middle of a three-person game. Perhaps another time."
Time! I had forgotten about it completely. How long had I been here? If I
outstayed my welcome they might think I was a pest, and wouldn't take me along
on any expeditions, "Well, it's probably time for me to go," I said. "But I
would love to play it sometime."

"Uh-huh," Zena murmured, staring down at the board. She moved her piece.
"Hyperspace tunnel!" she announced triumphantly. "I'm going straight to
Vavoosh."

They seemed to have forgotten I was there.

Mom and Dad were extremely curious about the neighbors, and dissatisfied by
what I had to tell them. I'd been there for several hours, and yet I'd found
out almost nothing about them. Mom and Dad quizzed me about their ages, their
professions, their financial status, their relationships with one another, and
where they came from. All I knew were their first names, that they traveled a
lot and were addicted to Interstellar Pig.

"I'm surprised at you, Barney," Mom said. "You're usually so inquisitive."

And I was surprised at Mom and Dad. The neighbors were much younger than they
were and had no obvious social position. Yet, for some reason, they were
fascinated by them. It wasn't like them at all.

I looked carefully at the marks around the windows in my room that night.
There was no message of any sort, only random wounds etched into the

wood. When I got into bed, the scars, by some trick of the lamplight, emerged
in sharp relief, like welts. I couldn't concentrate on my book, and turned out
the light. The wheezing and gasping of the bedsprings as I tried to find a
comfortable position made me think of an old man struggling to breathe. I
assured myself that, ancient though it was, this could not possibly be the bed
in which the prisoner had slept.

And if his ghost remained, it was too feeble a specter even to materialize in
my dreams. It was Zena I dreamed of, leading me by the hand across the floor
of a gigantic arena. It was patterned, like their game, with the images of
planets and stars, and curving pathways of light. Zena was telling me over and
over again something I could not grasp, something terribly important, of great
beauty and significance.

I

he next day, Sunday, was what Mom calls a perfect day: blistering hot without
a trace of cloud in the sky. Immediately after breakfast, she and Dad headed