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Durki squatted next to one of the cabin ports. "Ah, Raster, you besotted freak.
You are up then?"
"Of course I'm up, and with a head the size of the universe!"
Durki snorted. "You must pay the price for your ways, Raster." He heard a
scuffle from inside the cabin, then Raster speaking Pulsit's name. "Raster, what
is it?"
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r r
The freak's face, eyes as red as the paint splashed on his skin, appeared in the
porthole. "Come down quick, Durki. I think your master is dying."
Durki and Raster sat on opposite sides of the table, while on the third bench,
his face drawn and grey, Pulsit lay prone, covered with sailcloth up to his
neck. His grizzled head rocked from side to side with the motion of the ship.
Durki turned away and closed his eyes. Amar looked down at the broken body of
the great flyer Danto, then up at the trapeze, still swaying against the canvas
of the big top. He looked one more time at Danto, then began climbing the
ladder, ignoring the pain from his crippled left leg. "The crowd was told they'd
see the backwards quadruple tonight, and if it takes my last breath, they will!"
"Durki, what are you mumbling about?" Raster gulped from his jug and slammed the
container on the table.
Durki shrugged. "I was thinking. The deathwatch is an old story."
"Too depressing. I like stories with action, glitter, and pretty girls." Raster
belched.
"Aren't you soaking up the sapwine a little early?"
Raster shrugged. "A scale from the dragon that bit me." The freak cocked his
head- at Pulsit's quiet form. "Your master, do you think he will be all right?"
Durki shook his head. "I don't know. He is an old man." They gathered like
vultures around the old man's deathbed, rubbing their hands, smiling to each
other in secret, counting their inheritances before the body grew cold..'."
Durki reached for the jug, took a gulp and replaced the container on the table.
"You are right, Raster. This is too depressing. What would you like to talk
about?"
Raster rubbed his chin and raised his eyebrows. "What do you think about the new
ambassador to Momus the one from the Tenth Quadrant?"
Durki shrugged. "I am a storyteller, Raster, not a news-
teller. I do not follow politics."
Raster laughed. "Neither am I a newsteller, but I take an interest in whether or
not I will become a slave." "What are you talking about?"
"The ambassador a Vorilian, Inak by name is in Tar-zak right now. He would get
the Great Ring to vote away the defenders from the Ninth Quadrant and accept
those from the Tenth."
Durki rubbed his chin. "What do the defenders from the Ninth Quadrant defend us
from?"
"Why, from the Tenth Quadrant, of course." Durki shrugged. "Then, if we were
defended by the Tenth, we would be safe, wouldn't we?"
Raster frowned, held up a finger, then dropped it. He shook his head. "Our
statesman, Allenby, doesn't see it that way. He thinks we must keep the
Vorilians away from Momus. I agree."
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r r
Durki waved his hand impatiently. "Let's talk of other things, Raster. This
holds no interest for me."
"No interest?" Raster held out his hands, his eyebrows arched in wonder. "Things
are happening that will change the courses of planets of quadrants, or perhaps
the entire galaxy! Your storyteller's blood is thin indeed if it cannot draw
inspiration from such events."
"As I said, I am no newsteller." Durki reached for the
jug.
"You mean to say that the idea of a great war perhaps
one in space is of no interest to a storyteller?"
Durki put down the jug, turned his face to the overhead and closed his eyes.
Tadja jetted to one side as the Vorilian glopfiend's bolt sped past. The vapor
trail from a passing ship obscured his vision as he tried to sight his weapon on
the Vorilian... Durki looked back at the jug, then shrugged. "Stories like that
might interest some, but I don't think you'll find them among the better sorts
of people."
Raster frowned, then stabbed himself in his chest with his thumb. "7 like
stories like that!"
Durki nodded. "I rest my case. You see, Raster, most of the listeners we
.storytellers have at fires along the road, or in the squares of the large
towns, don't happen to be wine soaked, overmuscled, frustrated freaks." Durki
raised his eyebrows. "No offense."
Raster grabbed the jug, stood and stomped to the cabin
door. "I must go ori deck."
The door slammed behind the freak, and Durki turned toward Pulsit as his master
began mumbling and moaning. "Pulsit?"
"Durki... is that you?" The old man's voice was weak.
"Yes. Are you all right? How do you feel?"
Pulsit reached out a hand and grasped the front of Durki's robe. "Did you see
him? Where's the body?"
"Him? See who?"
"Bloody Buckets. We fought all night." Pulsit relaxed his grip and fell back
onto the bench. "Ah, it was glorious!"
Durki stared. "Humor him, doctor, otherwise the maniac will kill us all!" "Did,
uh, Mister Buckets fight well, Pulsit?"
The old man cackled. "Did he fight well? Look at me you fool! Anyone who could
put Captain John Fine on his back fights well!" Pulsit's eyes rolled up, then
the old man relaxed and fell asleep.
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r r
Durki shook his head. "You lock me behind these doors, thou cowering knave in
white! But, who is to judge the sane? Are you locking me away from the sane? Or,
are you keeping me safe from all those out there? That is it, isn't it? I am the
last sane man in the world ha, ha, ha, ha, ha..."
For the next few days, Pulsit raved, Raster swilled, and Durki wretched their [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]