"Timothy Zahn - The Icarus Hunt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zahn Timothy)

barrier
and they got to see how many colors of bruises they could raise on me.
I wasn't armed, at least not seriously. Even if I had been, blasting away from
close range at three full-size Yavanni was not a recommended procedure for
anyone desiring a long and happy life. But there was a trick I'd heard about a
few years ago, a nice little combination of Yavannian psychology and
physiology
that I'd tucked away for possible future reference. It looked, as the saying
went, like the future was now. Gazing at each of the Yavanni in turn, I
cleared
my throat. "Do your mothers know you boys are here?" I demanded in the deepest
voice I could manage.
Three jaws dropped in unison. "It's late," I continued before they could
respond. "You should be home. Go home. Now."
They looked at each other, their earlier anticipation floundering in
confusion.
Talking like a Yavannian dominant male was probably the last response they'd
expected from an alien half their size, and the molasses they used for brains
was having trouble adjusting to the situation. "Did you hear me?" I snapped,
putting some anger into my voice. "Go home."
The one on the left apparently had faster molasses than the other two. "You
are
not Yavannian," he snarled back at me in typically Yavannian-mangled English.
A
fresh wave of turpentine smell accompanied the words. "You will not speak to
us
that way." Paws flexing, he took a step toward me—
And I opened my mouth and let out a warbling, blood-freezing howl.
He froze in place, his alien face abruptly stricken as his glacial brain
caught
up with his fatal error. I was stationary and he was moving, which meant he
had
now violated my territory. I was the injured party, I had given out with the
proper Yavannian accusation/indictment/challenge shout, and I was now entitled
to the first punch.
By and by, of course, he would remember that I wasn't a Yavanne and therefore
not entitled to the courtesy of Yavannian customs. I had no intention of
giving
that thought time to percolate through. Taking a long step toward him, I
tightened my hands into fists and drove both of them hard into his lower
torso,
into the slight depressions on either side of the central muscle ridge.
He gave a forlorn sort of squeak—a startling sound from a creature his size—
and
went down with a highly satisfying thud that must have shaken the whole
taverno.
Curled around himself, he lay still.
The other two were still standing there, staring at me with their jaws hanging
loosely. I wasn't fooled—flabbergasted or not, they were still in territorial
mode, and the minute I stepped onto either's chosen section of floor I would