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

got in. The fox-woman looked over the worn upholstery and faded gum wrappers with fascination as Al
gave the name of his hotel.
The driver said nothing on the way, but after seeing the size of his tip he growled, and pulled away with
horn blaring and tires squealing.
A few people stared as Al led the fox-woman through the lobby to the elevators. Anthropomorphs
were still new and rare, toys of the very rich, and this hotel, while respectable, was hardly a haunt of
billionaires.
Giving one away on Missing Links was probably an attempt to broaden their appeal, to sell them to
the merely wealthy-- prices were reportedly coming down, after all. A year ago there reportedly hadn't
been more than a hundred sold; now the number was said to be over a thousand.
They had the elevator to themselves, and Al asked, "They call you Salome?"
"That's my model name," she said. "There were twenty of us in my creche. I was Number Eight."
"You didn't have a name?" Al asked, shocked.
The fox-woman cocked her head in what Al was beginning to realize was her equivalent of a shrug.
"They couldn't tell us apart, half the time," she said. "After all, we were all clone-sisters."
"Can I name you, then?"
"You can do anything you like, I guess-- I'm yours, aren't I?"
"I guess so," Al agreed, "I'm having trouble believing it, that's all. I never won anything more than a Big
Mac before."
"Really?"
"Really. I mean, I was on vacation here, and signing up for a game show was just a whim, you know?"
She blinked at him, batting eyelashes longer and lusher than any mere human had ever possessed.
"I'm going to call you Sally, I guess," Al said. "For Salome."
"All right. And should I call you Master? That was what they taught us to do."
He hesitated. All his childhood training, to respect others and treat everyone as equals, came back to
him-- but this person, this thing, was not his equal, she was property. Legally, she was a pet, not a
person.
"That's right," he said.

He had argued when the airline had insisted he buy Sally a ticket, claiming that she was cargo, and not
a passenger.
They had responded by showing him their pet regulations-- pets had to be in approved carriers, and if
they didn't fly in the cargo compartment and didn't fit in the overhead luggage compartment, then they
needed tickets, just like passengers.
They were willing to accept the collar and leash as a carrier, but if he was going to argue...
He bought her a seat.
At least the hotel hadn't tried to charge for her. They hadn't allowed her in the restaurant-- no pets
except guide dogs, the sign was right there-- but they hadn't charged anything extra beyond the higher
room service prices.
He was beginning to see that keeping an anthropomorph could be an expensive proposition. She ate
just as much as a human, needed a seat on airplanes-- that could add up.
Clothing was no problem, though. He had discovered as soon as they reached his hotel room that she
was wearing nothing underneath the tunic, because as soon as he closed the door behind them she
reached up, unclipped the leash from her collar, and pulled the tunic off over her head.
He had been rather startled by that.
She had been puzzled by his surprise.
"But I've got fur," she had said. "Why would I need clothes? I know I'm supposed to wear them out in
public, since I look so much like a woman and we don't want to embarrass anyone, but why should I in
private?"
He had had no answer; he simply stared. The short white fur on her belly, and the fluffy white on her