"Mickey Zucker Reichert - The Books of Barakhai 01 - The Beasts of Barakhai" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichert Mickey Zucker)

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
 To Mikey Gilbert:
You told us you were sick, and some of us never took
you seriously enough— but, damn it, did you have to prove it?
Every moment of every day, you are sorely missed.
 Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following people: Mark Moore, Jackie Moore, Koby Moore, Sheila Gilbert,
Jonathan Matson, Jo Fletcher, Sandra Zucker, Jennifer Wingert, the PenDragons, my billion or so
science professors, and Picasso (who made
endless hours of lonely keyboard-time more interesting).
 Chapter 1
RACKS of plastic hutches lined the walls of the biology laboratory at Algary campus, each with a
testtube water bottle jutting from its mesh screen lid. Surrounded by wood-topped metal stools, six fused
desks/cabinets filled the center of the room, a chaotic jumble of notepads, pens, pipettes, and goggles
cluttering their faux wood surfaces. Stomach growling, Benton Collins ladled fresh wood chips into the
pan of an empty cage while its usual occupant, a fat white rat, nosed at the corners of the cardboard box
that temporarily held it.
The odor of the cleaner churned Collins' hunger into nausea. He flung strands of dark brown hair from
his eyes with a gloved hand, smearing wet food mush across his forehead, then immediately berated
himself with sarcasm for the habitual gesture. Smart move. Good thing I wore gloves to protect me
from this slop.
As the sweet aroma of cedar replaced the chemical smells, Collins' gut rumbled again. He had
skipped breakfast and lunch, the expectation of a Thanksgiving feast holding hunger at bay. He had
promised his girlfriend to do whatever he could to make it to her family's home by 2:00 p.m., to meet her
parents for the first time. Collins doubted his skinny, bespectacled self would make much of an
impression on an old-money family like the Johnsons, especially reeking of rat and with green-gray
smudges of food stick goo across his face. He glanced at his watch. 3:30 p.m. And he still had an entire
row of cages to clean, as well as Professor Demarkietto's notes to review, before he could call it a day.
The drive alone would take an hour.
Feeling more like a punching bag than a graduate student, Collins filled the water bottle, placed a few
fresh sticks of food in the cage, then hefted the cardboard box. He poured the rat back into its cage. It
scuttled about, hurling chips, then hunkered down with a food stick clenched between its front paws.
Collins clipped the lid back in place and replaced the cage on its rack. He peeled off the gloves with a
snap of latex and tossed them into the trash can. Using a damp paper towel little finer than sandpaper, he
scrubbed the grime from his forehead, then washed his hands and drank from his cupped palms. The
water sat like lead in his otherwise empty belly. After drying his face and hands, he wadded the paper
towels together and launched them, like a basketball, into the can.
Only then, did Collins take a deep breath, close his eyes, and reach for the telephone. Fumbling
through the papers for his own organizer, he opened his eyes and leafed to the last page for the home
number of Marlys Johnson's parents. He punched it in.
Marlys answered on the first ring. "Hello?" Her tone hardened. "Benton, that better be you."
Seized with a sudden urge to hang up without speaking, Collins forced a laugh. "If I'd been Publishers'
Clearinghouse, wouldn't you have felt dumb?"
Dead silence.
Collins cringed. He pictured her: long red hair permed and styled for the holiday, the green eyes that
could as easily scald as melt him, the slender legs that seemed to climb to her smallbreasted chest. In his