"Lawrence Watt - Evans - Foxy Lady" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

She was beautiful.
She was standing on a melon-colored rotating pedestal, one knee forward, one hand on her hip and
the other hanging by her thigh; her pointed muzzle was raised proudly, her tail swishing gently behind her,
the only part of her not held motionless. She wore only a simple red tunic that covered her from shoulder
to mid-thigh, accentuating, rather than hiding, the swelling curves of bust and hip, and a black leather
collar around her neck. Fine orange fur covered her legs, arms, and upper face; her hands, feet, and
muzzle were white, toes and fingertips black. A white ruff and black forelock resembled a human
woman's head hair.
Al hadn't expected anything like this. He'd figured they'd give away a car, or some furniture, or
something, but not a gene-tailored companion!
"Isn't she something?" the MC asked, his arm around Al's shoulders. "And she's all yours!"
"Wow," Al said again, "She's beautiful."
The MC gave a phony chuckle, then turned to the studio audience and said, "Bill, what about our
other players?"
"Richard, all contestants on Missing Links receive the home version of our game, and today we also
have the pocket edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, compatible with any standard reader..."
Al wasn't listening; he was still staring at the fox-woman on the pedestal.
Then the red lights on the camera went out, and a gofer came to lead Al away. Still dazed, he signed
half a dozen assorted releases and tax forms, and twenty minutes later found himself standing at the studio
door, lost and confused.
A stagehand walked up, holding a leash; the other end of the leash was clipped to the fox-woman's
collar. He held out a clipboard.
"Sign here," he said.
"What is it?" Al asked, accepted the clipboard and a pen.
"Acknowledging receipt of your prize," the stagehand explained. "If you don't want it, sign on Line 3,
and we'll pay you a percentage of its cash trade-in value, instead. It'll be mailed out in about ten days."
Al looked over the form. "Where do I sign if I do want her?"
"Line 1," the man replied. He pointed.
Al signed on Line 1. The stagehand took back the clipboard, pulled out two copies of the form (one
pink and one yellow), and handed them to Al.
"If you change your mind, you have ten days to call the number here and arrange for pick-up," the
stagehand explained, pointing. "They'll deduct a charge for the pick-up-- see Paragraph Four? And your
check will go out in about two weeks."
Al nodded, not looking.
The stagehand looked at him, glanced at the Mark Five Vixen, then shrugged and handed Al the leash.
"She's all yours," he said.
She was shorter than she'd looked up on the pedestal, Al realized-- scarcely over five feet tall. That
made sense, though-- foxes weren't very big animals. He looked down into her huge dark eyes.
"They said you probably wouldn't want to keep me," she said, in a throaty alto.
"They were wrong," he said. He looked down at the leash. "Uh... you sound intelligent. Do you need
this thing?"
She cocked her head to one side. "I don't know," she replied. "They always said we had to have them
any time we went out in public, but I don't know why, really."
"It's so you won't run away, or get into trouble," Al said.
"Why would I want to run away?" she asked.
Al had no answer for that. "Maybe we'd better leave it, for now, just in case," he said.
Holding the leash loosely, he led her out onto the sidewalk. She flinched slightly at the noise of the
traffic, her pointed ears folding back somewhat, her tail wrapping about one leg. "Come on," Al said,
leading her toward the corner.
The first two taxis passed them by, but the third pulled up in response to Al's frantic waving, and they