"Alexei Panshin - Rite Of Passage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Panshin Alexei)

earlier than that. We used to play every chance we got, so it wasn’t surprising that I
was playing soccer in the quad yard— Alfing Quad, Fourth Level— when I got
word to come home. The yard stretches three floors high and two hundred yards in
each direction. There’s a regulation-sized soccer field, green and beautifully kept, in
the yard, but some older kids newly come back from their month of Trial and feeling
twice as tall because of it had exercised their privileges and taken the field for
themselves. We had moved down to the smaller field set up in the far end and were
playing there.
In soccer you have a five-man front line, three halfbacks who serve as the first line
of defense and who bring the ball up so the forward line can take it and score, two
fullbacks who play defense only, and a goalie who guards the nets. It’s a game of
constant motion that stops only when a penalty is called or when a ball goes out of
bounds or when a score is made, and then stops only for a moment.
I was playing the inside left position on the forward line because I have a strong
left-footed kick. It’s my natural kicking foot.
From midfield, trying to catch my breath after running hard, I watched our goalie
dive on a hard boot at the nets. He was up almost instantly, bounced the ball once,
then held it and kicked it high and long. The goalies are the only players on the field
who are allowed to touch the ball with their hands. The rest of us have to use our
heads, elbows, knees and feet. That’s what makes the game interesting.
Our right halfback knocked the ball down and trapped it with his foot. The instant
he had control, he passed the ball over to Mary Carpentier at center halfback and we
all started ahead on a rush for the goal.
The ball criss-crossed between our halfbacks running behind us up the field
almost as though it had a life of its own, a round brown shape that darted and
dodged and leaped in the air, but always was caught and controlled, never quite
getting away.
Once the other team intercepted the ball and it went back past midfield, but Jay
Widner picked off a bad pass and we began to rush again. Finally Mary Carpentier
headed a pass to me when I was in the clear for a moment. I had a step on Venie
Morlock, who was playing fullback against me. She was big, but slow. Even having
to concentrate on keeping the ball moving in front of me, I was faster than she was. I
had a good opening for a shot at the goal when Venie saw she couldn’t get the ball.
She swerved into me, gave me a neat hip, and sent me skidding onto my face. I was
running full tilt and couldn’t help myself. I went flying and hit hard. My kick went
bouncing out-of-bounds wide of the white posts and the net of the goal.
I looked up, sputtering mad. “Soccer is not a contact sport!” I said.
It was like Venie to pull something like that if she saw no other way to keep from
losing, and especially to me. We were confirmed old enemies, though I think it was
more of a deliberate policy on her part than on mine. Just as I scrambled up from the
floor the wallspeakers whistled twice for attention.
There were always announcements coming over the speakers. This time they were
calling for me. They said, “Mia Havero is wanted at home. Mia Havero is wanted at
home.”
Ordinarily Daddy didn’t have me paged and let me come home when I was good
and ready. There was a woman named Mrs. Farmer who used to tell Daddy that I
was undisciplined, but that wasn’t true. When Daddy did call for me, he only had to
call once.
“Time for you to go home,” Venie said. “Run along.”
The immediate flash of anger I had felt when I was skidding along had passed,