"Philip E. High - These Savage Futurians" - читать интересную книгу автора (High Phillip E)

he had waxed so that they stood up at right angles to the corners of his
mouth. It made him look like a wild boar. Corby had squat shoulders and
short but bulgy freckled arms.

He smiled, looking more like a boar than ever. "What you want here,
Del, boy—what you want here?"

When he saw that no answer was forthcoming, he charged.

Ventnor hit him full in the mouth as he came in and Corby staggered,
little eyes glazing. Ventnor hit him again and this time Corby dropped to
his knees and began to fall forward. At the last moment he put out his
hands and saved himself. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth and
made small scarlet spots in the dust.

Corby shook his head twice, inhaled deeply and staggered upright, but
his hands were limp at his sides and, clearly, he was only half conscious.

Ventnor knew nothing of rules; the word 'sportsmanship' had not been
included in his vocabulary so he hit again with all his force. This time
Corby went right down and stayed there, breathing stertorously and
showing the whites of his eyes.

It was then that several young men appeared from various parts of the
village and began to run towards him shouting: "Killer! Rapist! Robber!
Some of them carried heavy sticks or throwing clubs."

Ventnor looked wildly about him, saw his cause was hopeless and
turned to run.

Someone threw a stone, grazing his leg and then his reflexes took over
and he was running out of the village at full speed.

There were shouts behind him and the sound of pursuit but he did not
look back. A stone, probably from a sling, hissed past his head. A throwing
club, making a whirring sound, passed above him, struck a bank of earth
and bounced high into the air.

He looked upwards, seeking, if possible, a quicker way to high ground
and, on a hillock far to his right, he saw a figure. Only later did the
significance of what he had seen sink into his mind. Stones were flying
about him and his lungs were laboring but there was no mistake—the
Padre I

The Padre stood on a hillock, arms folded, feet slightly apart, staring
downwards as if in triumph.
 A club struck Ventnor's shoulder painfully and then he was round a
bend in the path which gave him temporary cover, but he knew that the
hunt was far from ended. There were shouts behind him, jeering, hoots of
encouragement and, from the cultivation patches, the mocking laughter of