"James Patrick Kelly - Fruitcake Theory" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

James Patrick Kelly: Fruitcake Theory

Bjorn is trying to tell me that the rooster isn’t dumb
as a spoon. Obtuse, maybe. Naпve, yes. Tedious, without
a doubt.
The rooster is sitting across the aisle and up two
seats, paying no attention to us. We’re just followers.
He’s staring out the window of the van at the snow.
"He’s Kuvat, Maggie," says Bjorn. "Aliens think
differently than we do."
"Cranial capacity." I tap the side of my head. "Check
that skull. He’s got room up there for half a cup of
brains, tops."
"Maybe he’s got some kind of distributed nervous
system," Bjorn says. "How else could they have built the
starship?"
"The scarecrows built the starship," I say. "The
roosters came along for the ride. You follow long enough
and it’s obvious."
"Intellectual bifurcation is just a theory."
Nevertheless, Bjorn slides down in his seat, defeated
once again. "All we know is that they’re Kuvat, both
roosters and scarecrows." He takes out his appetite
pacifier and starts sucking at it. I don’t mean to upset
him.
The rooster starts eeking to himself.
"Eek eek eeeek, eek eek eeeek! "
He looks like a cauliflower the size of a washing
machine -- with legs. They are bird legs, to be sure,
with scaly shanks and clawed, three-toed feet. But his
body is an enormous scoop of convoluted flesh. All he
wears is the translator, a golden disk that hangs on a
cord around his neck like the Noble Prize for Stupidity.
His skin is as translucent as spilled milk. Beneath it
are coils of muscle marbled with gray fat. He has
spindly arms and his little head is mostly mouth. We
can’t see the upright ruddy flap, like a rooster’s comb,
just behind his button eyes, because tonight he’s
wearing a Santa’s cap of red felt.
Bjorn pops the appetite pacifier out of his mouth. "I
think that’s ’Jingle Bells,’ " he says excitedly. "The
eeking." He makes a note of this. Bjorn is new to the
following team. He’s twenty-four and takes everything
too seriously, except himself. He’s fat and blond and
sweet as a jelly donut. I really do like him; he just
hasn’t realized it yet. He brings out the mother in me.
I yawn. I’m not a night person and I’m riding in a van
at two in the morning. It’s the rooster’s fault, of
course. It’s December 22 and the rooster has got a bad