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

was perched astride the slow bird. His red hair was unmistakable. By now
a lot of other people were beginning to take notice and point him out.
There were some ragged cheers, and a few angry protests.
Jason clutched Partridge's arm. "Somebody must have helped him up.
Who was it?"
"Haven't the foggiest. That boy needs a good walloping."
"Daniel Babbidge!" Mrs. Babbidge was calling nearby. She too had
seen. Cautiously she advanced on to the glass, wary of losing her balance.
Jason and company were soon at her side. "It's all right, Mum," he
assured her. "I'll fetch the little . . . perisher."
Courteously Bob Marchant offered his arm and escorted Mrs. Babbidge
back on the rough ground again. Jason and Partridge stepped flat-foot out
across the vitrified surface accompanied by at least a dozen curious
spectators.
"Did anyone spot who helped him up?" Jason demanded of them. No
one admitted it.
When the group was a good twenty yards from the bird, everyone but
Jason halted. Pressing on alone, Jason pitched his voice so that only the
boy would hear.
"Slide off," he ordered grimly. "I'll catch you. Right monkey you've made
of your mother and me."
"No," whispered Daniel. He clung tight, hands splayed like suckers,
knees pressed to the flanks of the bird as though he was a jockey. "I'm
going to see where it goes."
"Goes? Hell, I'm not going to waste time arguing. Get down!" Jason
gripped an ankle and tugged, but this action only served to pull him up
against the bird. Beside Dan's foot a heart with the entwined initials 'ZB'
and 'EF' was carved. Turning away, Jason shouted, "Give me a hand, you
lot! Come on someone, bunk me up!"
Nobody volunteered, not even Partridge.
"It won't bite you! There's no harm in touching it. Any kid knows that."
Angrily he flat-footed back towards them. "Damn it all, Sam."
 So now Partridge did shuffle forward, and a couple of other men too.
But then they halted, gaping. Their expression puzzled Jason
momentarilyтАФtill Sam Partridge gestured; till Jason swung round.
The air behind was empty.
The slow bird had departed suddenly. Taking its rider with it.



Half an hour later only the visitors from Atherton and their hosts
remained on Tuckerton green. The Buckby, Edgewood and Hopperton
contingents had set off for home. Uncle John was still consoling a
snivelling Mrs. Babbidge. Most faces in the surrounding crowd looked
sympathetic, though there was a certain air of resentment, too, among
some Tuckerton folk that a boy's prank had cast this black shadow over
their Mayday festival.
Jason glared wildly around the onlookers. "Did nobody see who helped
my brother up?" he cried. "Couldn't very well have got up himself, could
he? Where's Max Tarnover? Where is he?"