"Robert F. Young - Little Dog Gone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

 "Did anyone else recognize me?"
"I don't think so. I'm afraid even taped teletheatre hasn't got to Black Dirt yet."
Black Dirt, he thought. That would be Procyon 16. Now why in hell had he come here? Aloud, he
said, "I'm a little foggy on a few points. By any chance did I happen to mention how I got here?"
"I heard you tell the bartender that you'd come in from Port-o'-Stars by airbus, and that you were
recently arrived from Earth. Don't you remember, Mr. Hayes?"
"How long did I hang around?"
"Till nearly closing time. I—I wanted to talk to you, but I didn't have enough nerve. Then suddenly I
looked around and you were gone. I checked your bag and your coat in the lobby. I thought perhaps
you'd gone somewhere else to sleep."
Hayes grimaced. "I did. Though I imagine my original intention was confined to a walk beneath the
stars."
At this point, Bar-rag poked its head from beneath the table. The girl jumped. "Where in the world
did you get hold of a doggone, Mr. Hayes?" she said. "I thought all of them had been frightened back into
the hills."
"A doggone?"
"That's the settlers' name for them. First you see them, then you don't. They're capable of
teleportation."
"Well, no wonder!" Hayes said. "For a while there when I first woke up I thought I was seeing things.
He followed me back to town for some reason or other—probably a free meal. Do you think you could
fix him up with something?"
"Of course. He must like you, Mr. Hayes. Usually when a doggone sees a human being, he teleports
himself as far away as he can get. Or perhaps I should say 'it.' They're bisexual, you know, and
reproduce by parthenogenesis." She looked at Hayes closely. "You're shivering, Mr. Hayes. Shall I turn
the heat up?"
"No. Just bring me a triple shot."
He downed half of it a second after she set it before him. A shudder began deep within him and
spread upward. The room very nearly turned upside down, but he steadied it just in time by gripping the
edge of the table with both hands. Presently he became aware that the girl was leaning over him. "Are
you all right, Mr. Hayes?" she asked.
He drank the rest of the whiskey. "I will be. By the way, what's your name?"
"Moira. Moira Blair."
"Bring me another triple shot, Moira."
There was concern in her blue eyes. "Do you think—"
"I do. Bring it."
After she brought it, she went into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later bearing a plate of
meat scraps. She set the plate on the floor, and the little doggone came out of hiding and dug in. "Does he
have a name yet, Mr. Hayes'!"
"Bar-rag." Hayes tossed off the second triple shot and removed the handful of change from his
pocket. He piled it carefully on the table. "This cairn of coins you see before you, Moira, represents the
last of the tangible assets of one Nicholas Hayes," he said. "You will keep bringing him drinks till it is
gone, after which it is to be hoped that you will have the good sense to throw him out into the gutter
where he belongs."
"Please let me help you, Mr. Hayes."
"Why?"
"Because it isn't fair for you to—to be like this. When I was still living in New North Dakota, Mars
and had access to live TTV, I saw you in all your teletheatre roles, both Debuts and Encores. I saw you
as Tambourlaine. I saw you as Cyrano. I saw you as Hamlet. I saw you as Edward II. I saw you as
Willy Loman. And you were wonderful. You still are! You always will be."
"Aha! but you didn't see me as Milton Pomfret, did you? You didn't see me in the Debut of The