"Keith Fenwick - Skid 01 - A Planet Called Skid" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fenwick Keith)

solemn declarations, affirmations of duty, and the usual drama that turns a simple ritual into
one of great complexity and length. A theatre which assumed more importance than it
warranted in this enlightened and technological age.
Completely unaffected by the ritual the enormous fermentation vats bubbled away quietly,
providing the planet' sustenance, the way they had for several thousand years.
Towards the rear of the little group of witnesses, pressed up against the containment wall of the
vat, stood a man whose appearance marked him out as someone who was clearly of a different
race to the others. Noslow was short, slim, and had a swarthy complexion, in a crowd that was
mostly very tall, grossly overweight, and whose skin color almost matched that of the brilliantly
white robes they all wore.
Noslow carefully opened a small vial in the sleeve of his robe and concealing the vial in his
hand he tipped the contents into the vat.
With a nervous smirk Noslow listened to the final chant. A relic of a more superstitious age
when the Skidians believed their survival depended on placating the spirit world, as Inel went
through the motions of ensuring Skid would have sufficient food for the coming year. If all went
well Noslow hoped one of his own people; perhaps even himself would lead next year's
ceremony.

One man and his dogs

Wednesday 11/09/99

Bruce could feel a vein pulsing at his temple as he drew a deep breath and bellowed the next
command at the dogs.
"Get back Punch you moron!" he screamed. "Pheep pheep, pheep pheep," he whistled. "Get
back! Walk up, phip phip. Get in behind Punch! Walk up Can. Sit down Punch! That'll do Cop!"
Finally the cattle trotted across the hill, mooing and snorting unhappily, then slid down the
fence line and through the gate where Bruce stood as it began to rain again.
"Stop that, Cop, you senile old goat," Bruce screamed. The dog sat and waited expectantly on
the side of the hill like a wound up mechanical toy waiting to be let loose, his stubby tail
wagging furiously, instead of diving through the fence to head the mob of cattle off like he
thought he should. Can thought she had better sit too, while Punch, back up the empty hillside
just kept on barking like the lunatic he was.
Hunching his shoulders against the squally rain, Bruce counted the cattle through the gateway
and slammed shut it behind them.
"Bloody mongrels!" He grunted, as if the cattle were solely to blame for getting him wet. Well,
by being unnecessarily pig headed and all but refusing to budge, as far as he was concerned
they had been.
"Good boy." Bruce gave Punch, the pup a quick pat, aimed a kick at the other two dogs who
also decided that they deserved some attention, then stomped off towards his motorbike.
The rain shower passed but the wind still howled in off the sea, picking sand up from the dunes
and flinging it into his face as if he were standing in front of a sandblaster. Bruce pulled up the
hood of his swandri and trudged off through the dunes leaning into the wind, brushing through
the dead and dying lupines that he had planted as part of a halfhearted erosion control measure
in the spring.
At last he clambered over a fence and wearily threw his leg over the motorbike parked on the
other side. After a moment he kicked it into life and headed off up the track towards the next
mob of cattle that needed shifting, glancing around several times as he rode to make sure that
the dogs were following. Once he had to stop and yell at Can who was forever scavenging,
inspecting decomposing turkey or sheep carcasses, or anything else she thought had potential.