"Ron Goulart - The Robot In The Closet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goulart Ron)

will, the fact we're three full-grown men. Our combined weight could climb as high, say, as 525
pounds without—"
"Silence," advised the blind man. He waved his sightrod in the time machine's direction. "I
imagine you're the gadget she's hired."
Roscoe inclined his metal head in a brief nod. "You're very perceptive for a guy with a big glob
of mulch obscuring half of his lens."
 O.O. Tenbrook gave his sightrod an angry shake. "The presence of this gadget, Timothy,
confirms my worst fears."
"What is it you're afraid of?"
"That young Sara is letting her overzealous, though basically exemplary, fascination with the
illustrious history of the proud Tenbrook family cloud her . . . Is something going wrong with your
time machine?"
"I think he's laughing, Uncle Oscar," said Tim.
"Did you burst in here, with attorney in tow, to try to get me to talk Sara out of this time trip
she's got her heart set on?"
"Exactly," replied the silver-haired blind man.
"I just came along for the ride," said Dibner, Keese and Mermillion, turning both his blue eye
and his brown eye toward the entry to the cook pod. "We had some legal matters to attend to over
in the Redding Ridge area, so O.O. suggested—"
"That's enough out of you," Uncle Oscar told his composite lawyer. "Now then, Timothy,
traveling back and forth across the years is extremely dangerous. My concern, as dear Sara is my
only extant relative, for the girl prompted me to come here and face the slurs and insults of this
swell-headed bucket of bolts who—"
"Ask him how he knows about me." Roscoe steepled his fingers, creating a delicate ping.
Tim looked inquiringly at the tip of O.O. Tenbrook's stick, the lens of which was watching him.
"Didn't Sara herself fill you in?"
"If I had to depend on Sara's information I'd never be able to act the proper uncle to the child,"
said the old man. "She's very guarded, a true loner like her late father. I'm, much as I hate it, often
forced to resort to other methods to keep tabs."
"Aiming a soundgun at a private residence without a court order," remarked Roscoe, "is a crime
punishable by up to six months in a Rehab Facility, unk."
"Not if there's a demonstrable familial connection," put in Dibner, Keese and Mermillion. "Take
the case of Ma Malley versus Sonny Boy Malley, Junior Malley, Little Brother Malley—"
"Why, good morning, Uncle Oscar. I thought I recognized your ranting out here." Sara, wearing
a short plyorobe over the top of a sea-blue sleepsuit and the bottom of a burnt orange one, had
come quietly into the living pod.
Her uncle swung the tip of his sightrod toward the slim girl. "You don't have any more clothes
sense than your late mother, Sara," he said. "Don't you realize sea-blue and burnt orange clash?
And you're wearing one purple mukluk with one flesh-tone one."
"No. I couldn't find the mate to the purple one. The flesh-colored thing is actually my unshod
foot."
"Wipe that mulch off your lens," suggested Roscoe. "Good morning, Miss Tenbrook, you're
looking absolutely nifty. My old buddy, Gainsborough, would love to whip off a canvas of you
exactly as—"
 "Sara, dear, I admire your interest in our proud Tenbrook history, in the deep-rooted traditions
of the family," said Uncle Oscar. "I believe, however, you'll be taking too great a risk if you go off
into the past with a surly machine and an underpaid young man you picked up on campus."
"I picked Tim up before I ever returned to school Uncle." Sara's hands settled defiantly on her
narrow hips. "We love each other. We're seriously considering a five-year-marriage deal. You can
stick your—"