"William Tenn - Eastward Ho!" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tenn William)

"and the oldest son of the Senator from Idaho. When my father dies, I will sit in the Senate in his place. I
am a free-born man, high in the councils of my nation, and anyone who calls me a stinkard is a rotten,
no-good, foul-mouthed liar!"
ThereтАФit was done. He waited as Makes Much Radiation rose to his feet. He noted with dismay
the well-fed, well-muscled sleekness of the young warrior. He wouldn't have a chance against him. Not in
hand-to-hand combatтАФwhich was the way it would be.
Makes Much Radiation picked up the sword and pointed it at Jerry Franklin. "I could chop you in
half right now like a fat onion," he observed. "Or I could go into a ring with you, knife to knife, and cut
your belly open. I've fought and killed Seminole, I've fought Apache, I've even fought and killed
Comanche. But I've never dirt-ied my hands with paleface blood, and I don't intend to start now. I leave
such simple butchery to the overseers of our estates. Father, I'll be outside until the lodge is clean again."
Then he threw the sword ringingly at Jerry's feet and walked out.
Just before he left, he stopped, and remarked over his shoulder: "The oldest son of the Senator from
Idaho! Idaho has been part of the estates of my mother's family for the past forty-five years! When will
these romantic children stop playing games and start living in the world as it is now?"
"My son," the old chief murmured. "Younger generation. A bit wild. Highly intol-erant. But he means
well. Really does. Means well."
He signaled to the white serfs, who brought over a large chest covered with great splashes of color.
While the chief rummaged in the chest, Jerry Franklin relaxed inch by inch. It was almost too good
to be true: he wouldn't have to fight Makes Much Radiation, and he hadn't lost face. All things
considered, the whole business had turned out very well indeed.
And as for the last commentтАФwell, why expect an Indian to understand about things like tradition
and the glory that could reside forever in a symbol? When his father stood, up under the cracked roof of
Madison Square Garden and roared across to the Vice-President of the United States: "The people of
the sovereign state of Idaho will never and can never in all conscience consent to a tax on potatoes. From
time immemorial, potatoes have been associated with Idaho, potatoes have been the pride of Idaho. The
people of Boise say no to a tax on potatoes, the people of Pocatello say no to a tax on potatoes, the
very rolling farmlands of the Gem of the Mountain say no, never, a thousand times no, to a tax on
potatoes!"тАФwhen his father spoke like that, he was speaking for the people of Boise and Pocatello. Not
the crushed Boise or desolate Pocatello of today, true, but the magnificent cities as they had been of
yore...and the rich farms on either side of the Snake River...and Sun Valley, Moscow, Idaho Falls,
American Falls, Weiser, Grangeville, Twin Falls...
"We did not expect you, so we have not many gifts to offer in return," Three Hy-drogen Bombs was
explaining. "However, there is this one small thing. For you."
Jerry gasped as he took it. It was a pistol, a real, brand-new pistol! And a small box of cartridges.
Made in one of the Sioux slave workshops of the Middle West that he had heard about. But to hold it in
his hand, and to know that it belonged to him!
It was a Crazy Horse forty-five, and, according to all reports, far superior to the Apache weapon
that had so long dominated the West, the Geronimo thirty-two. This was a weapon a General of the
Armies, a President of the United States, might never hope to ownтАФand it was his!
"I don't know howтАФReally, IтАФIтАФ"
"That's all right," the chief told him genially. "Really it is. My son would not ap-prove of giving
firearms to palefaces, but I feel that palefaces are like other peopleтАФit's the individual that counts. You
look like a responsible man for a paleface; I'm sure you'll use the pistol wisely. Now your message."
Jerry collected his faculties and opened the pouch that hung from his neck. Rev-erently, he extracted
the precious document and presented it to the chief.
Three Hydrogen Bombs read it quickly and passed it to his warriors. The last one to get it, Bright
Book Jacket, wadded it up into a ball and tossed it back at the white man.
"Bad penmanship," he said. "And 'receive' is spelled three different ways. The rule is: 'i before e,
except after c.' But what does it have to do with us? It's addressed to the Seminole chief, Osceola VII,