"Lawrence Watt-Evans - War Surplus 01 - The Cyborg And The Sorcerers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

"What city is that ahead?"

The farmer put down the scythe and studied Slant from head to toe, staring critically at his fur vest and
the loincloth he'd made from spare fabric. At last he said, in a new and unfamiliar accent, "That's
Awlmei."

"Thank you." Slant bobbed his head politely and turned to continue toward the city.

"Hey!"

Slant turned back toward the farmer.

"What do you want around here?"

Slant was terse in his reply, as the man showed no trace of courtesy himself, and said simply, "Food and
shelter."

"You speak strangely. Where are you from?"

"Teyzha." He was glad that he didn't have to try inventing a name this time.

The fanner stared at him for a moment longer, then declared, "You don't concern me. Go on, then."

Slant nodded again and continued toward the city. He made an effort to remember as exactly as possible
the farmer's accent; there was no need to draw attention to the fact that he was a foreigner. Had the man
been friendlier or more talkative he might have stayed and spoken for a while, to pick up the local dialect
better.

It seemed that a distrust of strangers was widespread on this planet, and not just a local aberration near
Teyzha. Perhaps it resulted from the events of the so-called Bad Times; the destruction of the local
civilization must have led to a period of chaos, and probably considerable lawlessness.

He wondered whether there had been a city or other settlement on the site of Awlmei before the war; it
seemed like a good location, with several small streams flowing down from the hills nearby and watering
the plain, making it excellent farmland, and then merging into a river that wound off northward.

He had landed several kilometers to the south, well out of sight of the city in a stretch of uncultivated
grassland, where the ship had concealed itself in a small gully. He had then slipped out at dawn, wearing
the vest and loincloth and a pair of sandals—which were more comfortable than boots and perfectly
adequate on the gentler terrain of the region. Not wishing to repeat his earlier mistake, he had not
replaced his lost submachine gun with a duplicate from the ship's armory; instead he had sewn several
sturdy pockets into the lining of the vest, which now held a snark, a general-purpose hand laser, and an
automatic pistol he hoped would be loud and impressive enough to serve much the same purpose as the
submachine gun had in frightening people. A casual inspection would reveal nothing extraordinary about
him. The submachine gun, useful as it was, had been a mistake, attracting far too much attention.

This time he hoped to get by without attracting any attention at all. Now that he had some idea what he
was dealing with, he had devised a plan of action and cleared it with the computer, rather than just
blundering in—not that he had had much choice before. There was no way to learn enough about a