"Ian Watson - Slow Birds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watson Ian)

"I seem to recall last night you said I was wasting my time."
"Ay, running around all over the country. But this is just for a spin. Nice
evening, like. Mind, if you don't want to bother . . . Then we can all have a
few jars in the Wheatsheaf afterwards."
The lads must really have missed him over the past few weeks. Quickly
Jason collected his skates and sail.
"But what about your supper?" asked his mother. "Sheep's head broth."
"Oh, it'll keep, won't it? I might as well have a pasty or two in the
Wheatsheaf."
"Happen it's better you get out and enjoy yourself," she said. "I'm quite
content. I've got things to mend."



Twenty minutes later Jason, Sam, and Ned were skimming over the
glass two miles out. The sky was crimson with banks of stratus, and a river
of gold ran clear along the horizon: foul weather tomorrow, but a glory
this evening. The glassy expanse flowed with red and gold reflections: a
lake of blood, fire, and molten metal. They did not at first spot the other
solitary sail-skater, nor he them, till they were quite close to the slow bird.
Sam noticed first. "Who's that, then?"
The other sail was brown and orange. Jason recognized it easily. "It's
Tarnover!"
"Now's your chance to find out, then," said Ned.
"Do you mean that?"
Ned grinned. "Why not? Could be fun. Let's take him."
Pumping their legs, the three sail-skaters sped apart to outflank
TarnoverтАФwho spied them and began to turn. All too sharply, though. Or
else he may have run into a slick of water on the glass. To Jason's joy Max
Tarnover, champion of the five villages, skidded.
They caught him. This done, it didn't take the strength of an ox to stop
a skater from going anywhere else, however much he kicked and struggled.
But Jason hit Tarnover on the jaw, knocking him senseless.
"What the hell you do that for?" asked Sam, easing Tarnover's fall on
the glass.
"How else do we get him up on the bird?"
Sam stared at Jason, then nodded slowly.



It hardly proved the easiest operation to hoist a limp and heavy body on
to a slowly moving object while standing on a slippery surface; but after
removing their skates they succeeded. Before too long Tarnover lay
sprawled atop, legs dangling. Quickly with his pocket knife Jason cut the
hemp cord from Tarnover's sail and bound his ankles together, running
the tether tightly underneath the bird.
Presently Tarnover awoke, and struggled groggily erect. He groaned,
rocked sideways, recovered his balance.
"Babbidge . . . Partridge, Ned Darrow. . . ? What the hell are you up to?"
Jason planted hands on hips. "Oh, we're just playing a little prank, same