"Mike Resnick - Tales Of The Galactic Midway - Alien-Tamer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

The Dancer chuckled. “I heard about the tombstone. Jupiter said he thought you were
going to be a little upset.”
“An understatement,” muttered Flint. He turned and looked at the three crates that had
been wheeled up to the cage. “Why the hell can't he work ‘em into his act gradually,
like any normal person? By my count you've had to kill five animals so far.”
“First of all, he ain'tgot no act now that Bruno and the cats are dead,” said the young
man in his gentle Texas drawl. “And second, he's only got twenty-four hours to
approve of the animals or send ‘em back. Would you rather cart some animal around
that he can't work with?”
“Just the same, I'm out sixty thousand dollars on dead animals,” said Flint. “Can't you
get the robots to rig your gun with tranquilizer darts?”
“Sure,” said the Dancer pleasantly. “But it'd kill ‘em anyway. These ain't lions and
tigers, Thaddeus.”
Flint was about to reply, thought better of it, and turned his attention to the ring,
where one of the crates was being unloaded. Monk had the robots place it just inside
the door. Then, locking the cage again, he pressed the release on the crate, and a small
purple catlike animal bounded out, hissing furiously.
Monk snorted in disgust, walked into the cage, herded the snarling little animal up
against the bars, darted a hand out and picked it up by the scruff of the neck before it
could bite or scratch him, and tossed it back into the crate, cursing a blue streak the
whole time.
“What the hell wasthat supposed to be?” demanded Flint, walking around to the door.
“It wassupposed to be the most vicious carnivore on Belthar III,” said Monk with a
laugh. “Hell, for all I know it is.”
“Well, you're the guy who picked it.”
“I picked it from a holograph that your Corporation buddy Kargennian sent me,” said
Monk patiently. “The little bastard is exactly as represented, too—except that
Kargennian never said what its size was. I thought I was getting something about four
hundred pounds.” He laughed again. “I've seen bigger beagles.”
“Wasn't there some kind of spec sheet with the holograph?” asked Flint.
“I got enough trouble reading English.”
“You don't seem to have much trouble dictating it,” remarked Flint wryly.
“The tombstone, right?” Monk put on an angelic face and smiled. “It ain'tmy fault that
your partner hasn't got a sense of humor.” He turned to one of the robots. “Take this
one back to the ship, and haul the next crate in here.”
“My partner's lack of a sense of humor is going to cost you a couple of thousand
dollars,” continued Flint.
“What the hell do I care?” replied Monk. “There ain't an awful lot to spend it on out
here, in case you hadn't noticed. Now, why don't you stand back—unless you feel a
serious need to work the next animal, that is.”
Flint stood away from the door as the second crate was placed inside the cage and
Monk released the lock.
Nothing emerged.
“Antisocial son of a bitch, ain't he?” said Monk.
He walked into the cage and stood in front of the crate. Whatever was inside uttered
an ominous growl. “Well, at least it isn't dead,” remarked Flint.
Monk locked the crate again and told a robot to remove it.
“Don't you even want to see what you've got?” asked Flint.
Monk shook his head. “What I've got in there is a mess of trouble. We're returning it.”
“Without trying to work with it?” demanded Flint.