Get off the Unicorn
- Автор: Маккефри Энн
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «Get off the Unicorn». Краткое содержание книги:
Contents:
Lady in the Tower.--A Meeting of Minds.--Daughter.--Dull Drums.--Changeling.--Weather on Welladay.--The Thorns of Barevi.--Horse From a Different Sea.--Great Canine Chorus.--Finder's Keeper.--A Proper Santa Claus.--The Smallest Dragonboy.--Apple.--Honeymoon.
Peter screamed, gesturing frantically to the bulging overhead beam. Then, suddenly he found himself stumbling over plastic bags, desperately pulling at Fargo's arm to get the man to move. Peter remembered scrambling and clawing through wet heavy mud. Then something struck him across the head.
His skull was on fire, his body rigid. Certain he was buried in the tunnel, he tried to move but his arms were held to his side. His fingers clawed but met fluffy soft warm blanketing. There was noise and confusion around him. He was aware of breathing fresh air, and yet… there was thudding and rumbling underneath him which echoed through his pain-filled head.
The mine had collapsed! But he was wrapped in a blanket. He was safe.
"Yeah, you wouldn't believe how fast that Mustang went into reverse. The surprising thing is I made it out in one piece at all. 'Course the company will see to the body work. All in the line of duty, Scortius! And I got what I went after. I found the furs."
"I" found the furs? Peter cringed at Fargo's arrogance.
"Considering you were out looking for the Anderson kid, you got double luck," the officer was saying enviously.
Fargo chuckled. "Two finds in one day. Not bad, huh? Say, Doc, how long does it take that ambulance to get here? I want Petey boy given the best of care.
I'll foot the bill myself. And, of course, we should get the little feller back to Mrs. Anderson, too."
"The ambulance's coming," Dr. Wingard said, and there was something in his voice that made Peter think that the doctor didn't much like Ken Fargo. "I'm just as anxious as you are about Peter's condition. I want an x ray of that skull…"
"I thought you said he had just a flesh wound?"
"There's a possibility of concussion—"
"Concussion?" Fargo was startled.
"Yes, it was a wound caused by a falling object. Sufficient force to crack the skull. And I want to run an EKG on Peter. I don't like the sound of that heart…"
"Heart?"
A fierce pounding in Peter's chest echoed the panic in Fargo's voice.
"Yes. Molly Kieman's got enough on her mind, but I spotted an irregularity in Peter's heartbeat when I gave him a physical in school. Might be nothing at all. No mention of rheumatic fever on his school record."
"Rheumatic fever?"
"I'm the cautious type. I'd just like to check."
"Oh."
Peter was somewhat encouraged by the dubious sound of Fargo's rejoinder. Then he remembered Jorie Grant. She'd had a rheumatic heart and couldn't take gym; stayed out of school in hard weather, in general was a real twerp. Be like her? Peter groaned.
"Hey, he's coming to," Fargo cried.
The air about Peter seemed to press in on him and he had a sense of suffocation. A hand grabbed his chin and shook him.
"Hey, Petey. Speak to me!"
There was a scuffle and an exclamation of surprise from Fargo.
"H you don't mind, Mr. Fargo," Dr. Wingate said in a hard icy voice. "I'm the doctor here." A firm hand turned back the blanket and found Peter's wrist. "And for your information, you don't shake concussion cases." Boy, was Dr. Wingard angry! "Peter? Peter? Can you hear me?" His voice was gentle again.
"Concussion." That word again. It triggered a series of associations in Peter's mind and eventually made him think of TV shows he'd seen. Maybe… as his mother used to say, there were more ways to kill a cat than choking him with butter.
"Where am I?" He fluttered his eyelids like patients did on "Dr. Kildare." The act became real for the searchlights of the police cars were trained in his direction, bright enough to stun his eyes.
"Peter, it's Dr. Wingard. How're you feeling?"
"My head hurts."
"I know, boy. We'll soon fix that. Can you open your eyes again? And tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?"
Peter blinked. He could see that the doctor was holding up three fingers. He blinked again, made his eyes stay wide with fear.
"Who are you?" he asked, looking directly at the doctor as if he'd never seen him. Then he looked unseeingly at Fargo. "Where am I?"
"How many fingers, Peter?"
"Fingers? Fingers?" Peter couldn't think how many he ought to see if he didn't see the right number. But he could see the dawning of disappointed frustration and the fury of loss in Ken Fargo's face.
Losers weepers. Peter essayed a sob. After all, his head hurt—and he wasn't supposed to be as brave as Peter Kieman.
"Who are you? Where am I? My head hurts." But the first sob was abruptly followed by deep hurtful ones which Peter hadn't ordered.
"There, there, boy. Take it easy. You'll be all right," the doctor said. He stood up, pulling Fargo aside. Peter strained his ears. "That head injury seems to be causing a little amnesia."
"Amnesia?"
"Oh, I don't think it's anything to worry about. A few weeks' rest in the hospital, a careful regime for a few months, and he'll be right as rain."
"Amnesia? And a bum heart?" Fargo glanced sourly at Peter, who gave a weak groaning sob. "Look, Doc, I've got to report to my company about finding those furs. You just send the bills for the kid to Midwestern. Least we can do for him!"
"You'll be looking in on Peter?"
Peter kept his eyes tightly shut, but he was thinking with all his strength: Go away. Ken Fargo!
Fargo cleared his throat and began to move away.
"Well, now, I'll certainly try to. You let me know when he's completely recovered. If he gets his memory back. And check out that bad heart, too."
Well now, Peter thought, Petey boy just wouldn't ever recover from his amnesia. Not completely. And not that part of his mind that made him valuable to Fargo. Finder's keeper indeed!
Weariness settled in along with pain and Peter closed his eyes tightly. It was reassuring to hear little Victor Anderson blubbering somewhere. But what did he have to cry about? He was found, wasn't he?
Peter would have to stop "finding" anything for a while. Even Mr. Roche's golf balls. But he could blame that on the crack on the head, too. He could still caddy.
Then, when he grew up, and without Mr. Ken Fargo interfering with him and his mother, why he'd become the toppest-fiight insurance investigator. And nobody would consider it odd that he could find anything he needed to.
As his mother often said, it was an ill wind that blew nobody any good.
A Proper Santa Claus
Jeremy was painting. He used his fingers instead of the brush because he liked the feel of paint. Blue was soothing to the touch, red was silky, and orange had a gritty texture. Also he could tell when a color was "proper" if he mixed it with his fingers. He could hear his mother singing to herself, not quite on pitch, but it was a pleasant background noise. It went with the rhythm of his fingers stroking color onto the paper.
He shaped a cookie and put raisins on it, big, plump raisins. He attempted a sugar frosting but the white kind of disappeared into the orange of the cookie. So he globbed up chocolate brown and made an icing. Then he picked the cookie out of the paper and ate it. That left a hole in the center of the paper. It was an excellent cookie, though it made his throat very dry.
Critically he eyed the remaining unused space. Yes, there was room enough, so he painted a glass of Coke. He had trouble representing the bubbles that're supposed to bounce up from the bottom of the glass. That's why the Coke tasted flat when he drank it.
It was disappointing. He'd been able to make the cookie taste so good, why couldn't he succeed with the Coke? Maybe if he drew the bubbles in first… he was running out of paper.
"Momma, Momma?"
"What is it, honey?"
"Can I have more paper? Please?"
"Honest, Jeremy, you use up more paper… Still, it does keep you quiet and out of my hair… why, whatever have you done with your paper? What are those holes?"