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

“Thaddeus, I've only got twenty-four hours to accept one of these animals or reject it.
Any animal that won't come out of its cage is likely to feel so scared and so trapped
that all it's going to do is attack out of fear. Now, maybe it's a temporary condition
and maybe it ain't, but unless you feel like carting around a twenty-thousand-dollar
animal that we may never be able to use, it's my opinion that we ought to return it. I
guarantee that I won't be able to find out in one day's time whether I can work with it
or not.”
Flint shrugged. “You're the trainer.”
“Damn it, Thaddeus!” said Monk. “Don't you think Iwant an animal I can work with?
I took a lion, a bear, and two leopards with me when we left Earth. My act is buried
on four goddamned worlds that I can't even pick out in the night sky. We've tried
fourteen animals in the last six months. I sent nine back and the Dancer had to kill the
other five. I'd sell my soul for another Simba, or even something like Bruno.”
Flint made no reply, and Monk directed the robot to move the third crate into the ring.
When he released the catch a large grayish animal, wolf-like in appearance but far
larger, stalked out. It strode once around the ring, seemingly unperturbed by its
surroundings, walked slowly toward the crate from which it had emerged, and
suddenly screamed and hurled itself directly toward the Dancer. It bounced back off
the bars of the cage, rolled over twice, and then continued walking calmly around and
around the ring.
“Well, he's got possibilities,” said Monk.
“And an appetite,” added Flint dryly.
“I like his feet,” said Monk, studying the animal.
“Oh? Why?”
“Retractable claws. That means he ought to be able to catch things.”
“Like animal trainers?” asked Flint.
“He doesn't need claws to kill a man,” said Monk. “I wonder what the hell his natural
prey is? Must be something half again as big as a buffalo.”
“And you're going to play catch with him?”
“Not this morning,” said Monk with a smile. “I'm just going to get acquainted with
him. Reminds me of a dog I used to own.”
“He was bigger than any dog you ever owned the day he was born,” said Flint.
“My friend the optimist,” muttered Monk. He waited for the animal to reach the far
side of the ring, then quickly walked through the door, holding a small metal chair in
one hand and his whip in the other.
“Hi, Shep,” he said gently.
The animal turned and glared at him, and Monk stood motionless, the chair positioned
just ahead of him. The animal moved to its left, and Monk turned slowly, keeping the
chair between them. It stopped again, growled once, and began walking back to its
right. Monk pivoted to face it.
Then, suddenly, it took a single bound toward Monk, stopping about eight feet away
as Monk cracked his whip. Flint shot a quick glance at the Dancer, who now had his
pistol out and trained on the animal, then looked back at Monk, who raised the chair a
little higher and took a tentative step forward.
The animal snarled and backed away, and Monk advanced another step.
The animal retreated again, and Monk spent the next five minutes forcing it to move
where he wanted it. Twice the animal charged at him, and twice the sound of the whip
made it come to a stop.
“Tojo!” Monk called.
“Yes?” said the hunchback, shuffling up to the cage.