"Terry Dowling - The Lagan Fishers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dowling Terry)

"It was-your thoughts-there." Spoken words this time. The creature enunciated them so carefully, seemed
to agonize over each one, fiercely concentrating, being so careful. Could it be, did he imagine it or was there
perspiration on the forehead, the sheen of stress or panic? "I know-Jeanie."
"You do!"
The mannequin frowned, desperately confused, clearly alarmed if the twisting of the face were any
indication. "It was-there. There. The-anchor?" The final word was a question.
"Ah." Sam felt hope vanish, felt fascination empty out and drain away, then refill from what truly, simply
was on this strangest, most magical night.
"Who are you?" he said, gentler, easier now. "What are you?"
"Yours?" Again, it was almost a question. This creature seemed in shock, far more troubled than he was,
but a shock almost of rapture as well as panic. At the wonder of being here. Being lost, bereft, but here.
Somewhere. Anywhere.
Sam couldn't help himself. He stepped back, did so again and again, moved out of the chamber, out from
under the porch. He had to anchor himself too. He looked around at the night, at the rising laganform looming
over him, at the spread of coral barricades sweeping away in the vivid dark. No wonder they called them
dream hedges. He saw it all now. Others had had these visitations. That's what the official Alien Influence
spec groups were really looking for. Motile manifestations. Lifesign. The cathedrals were concentrations for
hiding passengers, for delivering them into this world.
What to do? Tell the others? Share this latest, strangest, most important discovery-not the word!-this
benefice, this gift? The orbitals were nightsighted, but Sam and this creature, this-Kyrie?-the name was just
there-Kyrie!-just was, were in the lagan, with the croisie at full song and the honey-balm strengthening, both
caught in the richest rush of spindrift he'd seen in weeks, with the most vivid runs of ghost-light making the
hedges all flicky-flashy. Flickers of lagan dance, lagan blush. Semaphores of dream. The tides of this other
sea bringing up its bounty.
He made himself go back into that darkness. He had to. It was a chance, a chance for something. He
barely understood, but he knew.
"Kyrie?" He named it. Named her. What else could he do?
She was standing out from the chamber wall, just standing there naked and waiting.
"Kyrie?" he said again, then gave her his dressing gown, moved in and draped it about her shoulders. How
could he not?
Before he quite knew he was doing so, he was leading her out into the night, holding her, steadying her.
She walked stiff-legged, with a strange and stilted gait, new to walking, new to everything, but flesh-warm and
trembling under his hands. She was hurting, panicking, desperately trying to do as he did. Sam guided her up
the path and into the house. It was all so unreal, yet so natural. It was just what you did, what was needed.
Because it seemed right, because he needed it, Sam put her in Jeanie's room, in Jeanie's bed, in the
room and bed Jeanie had used in her final days before hospitalization was necessary and she had gone away
forever. He did that and more. Though he balked at it, he couldn't help himself. He left the photos and
quik-sims of Jeanie he'd put there when she'd left, made himself do that, hating it, needing it, needing it
knowing what this brand-new Kyrie was trying to become.

She was still there the next morning and, yes, hateful and wonderful both, there did seem more of Jeanie in
the drawn, minimalist face. Did he imagine it? Yearn for it too much? Was it the light of day playing up the
tiniest hint?
Sam felt like a ghoul, like something cruel and perverse when he brought in more pictures of Jeanie and
set them on the sideboard, even put one in the en suite.
It was mainly curiosity, he kept telling himself. But need too, though too dimly considered to be allowed
as such. He just had to see.
No one had observed their meeting. Or, rather, no queries came, no AIO agents, no officials quizzing him
about an overheard conversation, about a late-night lagan-gift from the cathedral. It seemed that the lagan had
masked it; the croisie had damped it down; the honey-balm had blurred the words to nothing-perhaps their