"Theodore Sturgeon - The Perfect Host" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sturgeon Theodore)

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THE PERFECT HOST
by Theodore Sturgeon
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Copyright ┬й 1948 by Weird Tales
eBook scanned & proofed by Binwiped 11-25-02 [v1.0]



I

As Told By
RONNIE DANIELS


I WAS FOURTEEN then. I was sitting in the car waiting for dad to come out of the hospital. Dad was
in there seeing mother. It was the day after dad told me I had a little sister.
It was July, warm, and I suppose about four in the afternoon. It was almost time for dad to
come out. I half opened the car door and looked for him.
Someone called, "Mister! Mister!"
There was a red squirrel arcing across the thick green lawn, and a man with balloons far down
the block. I looked at him. Nobody would call me mister. Nobody ever had, yet. I was too young.
"Mister!"
It was a woman's voice, but rough; rough and nasty. It was strong, and horrible for the
pleading in it. No strong thing should beg. The sun was warm and the red of the brick buildings
was warm, too. The squirrel was not afraid.
The grass was as green and smooth as a jelly bean.
Mother was all right, dad said, and dad felt fine. We would go to the movies, dad and I, close
together with a closeness that never happened when things were regular, meals at home, mother up
making breakfast every morning, and all that. This week it would be raids on the icebox and
staying up late sometimes, because dad forgot about bedtime and anyway wanted to talk.
"Mister!"
Her voice was like a dirty mark on a new collar. I looked up.
She was hanging out of a window on the second floor of a near ell of the hospital. Her hair
was dank and stringy, her eyes had mud in them, and her teeth were beautiful.
She was naked, at least to the waist. She was saying "Mister!" and she was saying it to me.
I was afraid, then. I got in the car and slammed the door.
"Mister! Mister! Mister!"
They were syllables that meant nothing. A "mis," a "ter"-- sounds that rasped across the very
wound they opened. I put my hands over my ears, but by then the sounds were inside my head, and my
hands just seemed to keep them there. I think I sobbed. I jumped out of the car and screamed,
"What? What?"
"I got to get out of here," she moaned.
I thought, why tell me? I thought, what can I do? I had heard of crazy people, but I had never
seen one. Grownup people were sensible, mostly. It was only kids who did crazy things, without
caring how much sense they made. I was only fourteen.
"Mister," she said. "Go to--to....Let me think, now. ...Where I live. Where I live."
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"In Homeland," she said.