"Charles Stross - A Boy And His God" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

diet of red meat, anabolic steroids and prayer. He slept with his tentacles in the open air, twitching
faintly as he dreamed of whatever it is Elder Ones dream of; on more and more nights he sneaked
stealthily out of his kennel and down the manholes, until the public health inspectors came to look at the
sewers and scratched their heads in wonder and pronounced the town rat-free for the first time in living
memory. Mom had to get out her saw and enlarge the kennel opening.

"He just growed," Howie confided to his friends at school -- 'Fingers' Freddy and The Worm, who oohed
and aahed appreciatively. Neither of them had a god, although The Worm had a pet snake which spent
most of its time asleep and didn't notice if you prayed to it. It didn't grow either, nor did it gibber at the
full moon and rattle its tentacles on the picket fences when it went skateboarding with Howie. Howie
had an old walkman from when he was a kid, and he rigged it so that the headphones fit a couple of
Junior's orofices -- whether they were ears or not he wasn't certain, but they sure looked funny and
Junior seemed to like it -- so that he could listen to the Dead Kennedys as he rolled down the sidewalk
on his red skateboard. Yes, even if Howie was unhappy and uncertain at school his pet god was doing
just fine; he even had a worshipper, and what more can any self-respecting deity ask than that?



file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...arles%20Stross%20-%20A%20Boy%20And%20His%20God.html (9 of 13)19-2-2006 17:13:20
 A Boy and his God

(Lots, actually.)

As autumn wore on, the nights grew longer. Candy tormented him intermittently, asked him to go out
with her then had a good laugh at him with her gang when he refused out of knock-kneed terror. Going
out with her, while not a totally repulsive prospect, would expose him to the Gang ... and girls in gangs
are utterly different to girls on their own. So she continued to pull his pigtail in class -- almost coyly, as
if to retain his interest -- and hang out downtown at night.

Late one afternoon, Miss Stead -- who was, if anything, more fearsome than Miss Jones -- lectured them
about the evils of logical positivism. She closed her big textbook with a thud and a spurt of dust, just as
the bell rang. "Now go and be good children and read chapter seven before your next lesson, all of you!"
she said. "And remember that the test next Tuesday will cover Bertrand Russell and the post-Godelian
numerotheologists!" Candy yawned elaborately behind Howie: who didn't look round, so he didn't see
that her brace had emigrated to leave a spotless bite and sultry lips that could have graced a film star. He
packed his books and stood up, then Candy grabbed him from behind.

"Hey!" he protested.

"Yeah?" she said. "You a kiddy, kiddy? Or are you a man?"

"I'm a boy!" he protested hotly. "I'll set my god on you --"

"Good," she said, tightening her grip round his throat playfully. "You wanna go to the pictures tonight?"

"I gotta walk Junior," he gasped.

"Aw, fuck." She pronounced it with the breathless reverence of one who had just discovered what the
word meant and wondered if it was fun. "You're no good, Kiddy. Hey, I betcha you don't so have a god,
anyway!" She let go of his throat and stepped back.