"Robert A. Heinlein - Citizen of the Galaxy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

Citizen of the Galaxy
Robert A. Heinlein


Copyright 1957
Chapter 1
„Lot ninety-seven,“ the auctioneer announced. „A boy.“
The boy was dizzy and half sick from the feel of ground underfoot The slave
ship had come more than forty light-years; it carried in its holds the stink of all
slave ships, a reek of crowded unwashed bodies, of fear and vomit and
ancient grief. Yet in it the boy had been someone, a recognized member of a
group, entitled to his meal each day, entitled to fight for his right to eat it in
peace. He had even had friends.
Now he was again nothing and nobody, again about to be sold.
A lot had been knocked down on the auction block, matched blonde girls,
alleged to be twins; the bidding had been brisk, the price high. The
auctioneer turned with a smile of satisfaction and pointed at the boy. „Lot
ninety-seven. Shove him up here.“
The boy was cuffed and prodded onto the block, stood tense while his feral
eyes darted around, taking in what he had not been able to see from the pen.
The slave market lies on the spaceport side of the famous Plaza of Liberty,
facing the hill crowned by the still more famous Praesidium of the Sargon,
capitol of the Nine Worlds. The boy did not recognize it; he did not even know
what planet he was on. He looked at the crowd.
Closest to the slave block were beggars, ready to wheedle each buyer as he
claimed his property. Beyond them, in a semi-circle, were seats for the rich
and privileged. On each flank of this elite group waited their slaves, bearers,
and bodyguards and drivers, idling near the ground cars of the rich and the
palanquins and sedan chairs of the still richer. Behind the lords and ladies
were commoners, idlers and curious, freedmen and pickpockets and vendors
of cold drinks, an occasional commoner merchant not privileged to sit but
alert for a bargain in a porter, a clerk, a mechanic, or even a house servant
for his wives.
„Lot ninety-seven,“ the auctioneer repeated. „A fine, healthy lad, suitable as
page or tireboy. Imagine him, my lords and ladies, in the livery of your house.
Look at—„ His words were lost in the scream of a ship, dopplering in at the
spaceport behind him.
The old beggar Baslim the Cripple twisted his half-naked body and squinted
his one eye over the edge of the block. The boy did not look like a docile
house servant to Baslim; he looked a hunted animal, dirty, skinny, and
bruised. Under the dirt, the boy’s back showed white scar streaks,
endorsements of former owners’ opinions.
The boy’s eyes and the shape of his ears caused Baslim to guess that he
might be of unmutated Earth ancestry, but not much could be certain save
that he was small, scared, male, and still defiant The boy caught the beggar
staring at him and glared back.
The din died out and a wealthy dandy seated in front waved a kerchief lazily
at the auctioneer. „Don’t waste our time, you rascal. Show us something like
that last lot.“
„Please, noble sir. I must dispose of the lots in catalog order.“