"Lester Del Rey - The Pipes of Pan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Del Rey Lester)

Finally he got up and moved out into a little park across from the restaurant, just as darkness began to
replace the twilight. Sleeping accommodations were the least of his worries. He found a large bush
which concealed his body, and lay down on the ground under it. Sleep came quickly.

When he awoke, he found himself better for the sleep, though the same wasn't true of his clothes. He
located his shoes and clamped his hoofs into them again, muttering dark thoughts about cobblers in
general. If this kept up, he'd get bog spavins yet.

He made his way across to the restaurant again, where the waitress who was on at that hour regarded
him with less approval than the other had. Out of the great pity of her heart, her actions said, she'd
condescend to serve him, but she'd be the last to object to his disappearance. The sweet bun he got must
have been well chosen for dryness.

"Hello there, old-timer." Bob Bailey's easy voice broke in on his gloom as the young man sat down
opposite him. His eyes studied the god's clothes, and he nodded faintly to himself, but made no
comment. "Have any luck yesterday?"

"Some, if you'd call it that." Pan related his fortunes shortly. Bailey grinned faintly.

"The trouble with you," Bailey said around a mouthful of eggs, "is that you're a man; employers don't
want that. They want machines with self-starters and a high regard for so-called business ideals. Takes
several years to inculcate a man with the proper reverence for all forms of knuckling under. You're
supposed to lie down and take it, no matter how little you like it."



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"Even empty fools who hold themselves better than gods?"

"That or worse; I know something about it myself. Stood all I could of a two-bit, white-collar job before
I organized the Barnstormers."

Pan considered the prospect, and wondered how long it would take him to starve. "Slavery isn't what I'm
looking for. Find your musician?"

"Not a chance. When they've got rhythm, they don't bother learning to play; and most of them don't have
it. Smoke?"

Pan took the cigarette doubtfully, and mimicked the other's actions. He'd seen men smoking for
centuries now, but the urge to try it had never come to him. He coughed over the first puff, letting out a
bleat that startled the couple in the next booth, then set about mastering this smoke-sucking. Once the
harsh sting of the tobacco was gone, there was something oddly soothing about it, and his vigorous good
health threw off any toxic effect it might have had.

Bob finished his breakfast, and picked up the checks. "On me, Faunus," he said. "The shows should
open in a few minutes. Want to take one in?"