"Michael Swanwick - Cold Iron" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

the sound of her footsteps bouncing from the high ceiling. The dragon's eye tracked her progress.

Was Rooster dead? His plan had turned out even worse than she had anticipated. She had expected that
he would escape unscathed while she herself would be caught and subjected to a punishment both swift
and dreadful. This was worse, far worse, on both counts.

Time passed, and Blugg did not return. Nor did the techs who surely worked here. At first she awaited
them with fear, knowing they would not accept her explanation of what she was doing in their
workspace.

Then, from sheer boredom, she began to look forward to the confrontation. Later, she despaired of it.
Finally, she arrived at indifference. Let them come or not; she did not care. She was a creature of pure
perception, a passive observer of the coarse feel of the metallic grit dusting the workbench, of the
oxidized rubber smell of the voltmeters, and the fine sheen of the smoothly worn grain on the seats of the
stools. Without her, these things would cease to exist, fading silently and gratefully into nothingness.

By excruciatingly slow degrees the window dimmed and the room cooled. Just before darkness,
someone walked by in the hallway, flicking switches. Row upon row of fluorescent tubes winked on
overhead.

Jane's stomach ached. She felt miserable in a way that was beyond tears. Her insides cramped. For the
umpteenth time she walked into the center of the room, the dragon's eye following her every step. She
had no idea what time it was, but she was certain she had missed supper.

The door slammed open.

Blugg entered, looking weary and distracted. His grey workshirt was damp under the armpits, and the
sleeves were rolled halfway up his wooly forearms. The dragon's eye flicked toward him.
"What were you doing in my office?" Oddly, Blugg did not look at Jane. Instead, he frowned down at a
small filigree-capped crystal that hung from his hand on a loop of thread.

"I was only. . . ."

All of its own volition, Jane's hand rose to her mouth. Her lips pursed involuntarily. It was the exact same
gesture she had been making when Blugg saw her in front of his office. Horrified, she whipped her hand
down and hid it behind her back.

Blugg stared at her in a bug-eyed, unblinking way for a moment. A slow smile grew on his face. "You
little minx. You were going through my trash."

"No!" she cried. "I didn't take anything, really I didn't."

Blugg slid the crystal back in its plastic case and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. He reached forward and
seized her chin.

His smile grew dreamier, and more frighteningly distant. He turned her head from side to side, studying
her face. "Mmmmm." He ran his gaze down the front of her work apron, as though appraising her
strength. His nostrils flared. "Rummaging through my trash basket, were you? Looking for orange peels
and bits of sandwich crust. Well, why not? A healthy appetite is a good thing in a youngster."