"James Patrick Kelly - The Edge of Nowhere" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

"Read it somewhere." He considered. "Jane Austen? Evelyn Waugh?"

At that moment, the bloodhound raised his snout. Rain got the impression that he was sniffing the air. He
stared through the front window at ... who? Rain? Will? Some signal passed between the dogs then,
because they all stood. One of the terriers reared up on its hind legs and batted the door handle. Rain
ducked from Will's side and retreated to the safety of her desk.

"I'm betting they're not here to buy happy crumbs." Will scratched behind his ear with the rubber eraser
on his pencil.

The terrier released the latch on the second try and the door swung open. The shop bell tinkled as the
dogs entered. Fast Eddie slid out of the lab, wiping his hands on his apron. He stood behind the display
case that held several dozen lead crystal trays filled with artfully broken psychotropic cookies. Rain
hoped that he'd come to lend her moral support and not just to see if the dogs wanted his baked goods.
The terriers deployed themselves just inside the door, as if to prevent anyone from leaving. Will stooped
to shake the paw of the dog nearest him.

"Are you an Airedale or a Welsh?" he said.

"Never mind that now," said the dog.

The bloodhound padded up to Rain, who was glad to have the desk between them. She got a distinct
whiff of damp fur and dried spit as he approached. She wrinkled her nose and wondered what she
smelled like to him.

The bloodhound heaved his bulk onto his hind legs. He took two shaky steps toward her and then his
forepaws were scrabbling against the top of her desk. The dark pads unfolded into thick, clawed fingers;
instead of a dew claw, the thing had a thumb. "I'm looking for a book," said the dog. His bowler hat
tipped precariously. "My name is Baskerville."

Rain frowned at the scratches the dog's claws made on her desktop. "Well, you've got that wrong." She
leaned back in her chair to get away from its breath. "Baskerville wasn't the hound's name. Sir Charles
Baskerville was Sherlock Holmes's client."

"You may recall that Sir Charles was frightened to death by the hound well before Dr. Mortimer called
on Holmes," Baskerville said. He had a voice like a kettle drum. "The client was actually his nephew, Sir
Henry."

Rain chewed at her lower lip. "Dogs don't wear hats." She didn't care to be contradicted by some clumsy
artifact of the cognisphere. "Or ties. Are you even real?"

"Rather a rude question, don't you think?" Baskerville regarded her with sorrowful melted-chocolate
eyes. "Are you real?"

The dog was right; this was the one thing the residents of Nowhere never asked. "I don't have your damn
book." Rain opened the top drawer of the desk, the one where she threw all her loose junk. It was a way
to keep the dog from seeing her embarrassment.

"How do you know?" he said reasonably. "I haven't told you what it is."