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

“I've told you why you can't,” began Flint.
“Yeah, but that was different. I still had Bruno, and you needed me in the specialty
tent. Well, now I've got nothing. You can either pay me a hundred grand a year to
hold targets for the Dancer, or you can let me put together an act that'll draw some
customers.”
“What makes you think you canget anything worthwhile?” said Flint.
“You think Gunther Gebel-Williams is the only trainer that ever lived who can wrap a
tiger around his shoulders?” said Monk. “Hell, I used to pull food right out of Simba's
mouth! ButI got to choose the animal. Even this cowering hulk in the ring here—if I'd
had him as a baby, he'd be pulling better crowds than the Dancer.”
“Nothingoutdraws the Dancer,” said Flint firmly. “Still, you've got a point. You're
making too damned much money to sit on your hands, and there's no way we can send
you home.” He paused. “Where would you start looking?”
“Just program a ship to take me to a few worlds that have zoos, fix me up with a
translating device, and give me a line of credit,” said Monk. “I'll take it from there.”
“Let me talk to the skeleton about it,” said Flint. He turned to leave. “Stick around
until Kazan of the North has calmed down enough to put him back into his crate, and
then help out with the games.”
“Is there anything you wantme to do, Thaddeus?” asked Tojo.
“You mean besides checking the concession goods against the manifest, changing the
lighting in the specialty tent, and making sure the animals get back on the cargo
ship?” asked Flint. “Yeah. Why don't you put the balls back where you got ‘em from
before someone comes along and swipes ‘em?”
Flint walked back through the Midway to the huge spaceship, stopped off in the mess
hall long enough to pick up a beer, and took the elevator up to his partner's office on
the top level. He entered without knocking, as usual, walked over to a couch of
unearthly design, and tried unsuccessfully to make himself comfortable.
The blue man was facing one of the walls, staring at an oddly distorted print while
holding another out in front of him. His ever-present cup of coffee, to which he had
become addicted during his brief stay on Earth, sat on his desk.
“Ah, Mr. Flint,” he said, looking up. “Which of these do you think looks better here?”
He turned and held the print up for Flint to see.
“I can't say that either one of them makes a lot of sense. I just hope to hell nothing in
the galaxy actually looks like that.”
“You disapprove of them?” asked the blue man mildly.
“Mr. Ahasuerus, I've been coming up here every day for more than two years, and
every day you've been playing with some new painting or drawing or holograph that's
even weirder than the last one,” replied Flint. “Evenyou can't take this junk
seriously.”
“I assure you, these are works of art,” said the blue man.
Flint snorted. “Art is fat naked women. The rest is just so much hogwash.”
“Stated with your customary sophistication,” commented Mr. Ahasuerus in an
amused tone of voice. “And now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“I just got back from the training cage.”
“Did we have any luck with Monk's animals?”
“Not so's you'd notice it.”
Mr. Ahasuerus sighed heavily. “I feared as much. You know, Mr. Flint, this is simply
not the way to build an animal act.”
“Someone's been talking to you,” said Flint with a smile.
“For quite some time now,” admitted the blue man. “I have come to the conclusion