"Brad Ferguson - To Tell The Troof" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ferguson Brad)

 “Perhaps the native religion is too strong?” Edith hazarded.
“Is none,” Zweebl stated flatly. “Didn’t have one before Father Mort
come. Still don’t. New thing for us. Planets, stars in sky, fish in sea,
mystery of creation. Jesus dies, redeems Terra. Who cares? Phooey. Eat,
drink, be merry, for tomorrow we do it all over again, that what I say.”
Edith looked at Zweebl. “The Troof aren’t religious? Isn’t that supposed
to be unusual for a sentient race?”
“How I know?” Zweebl asked, eyes wide. “Only know two such, and from
what I see, it fifty-fifty.”
“That’s my assistant talking,” McAleer said agreeably, “and, yes, the
lack of any native religion here is highly unusual — unprecedented, I’d say.
Not only are the Troof uninterested in my religion, but they don’t have any
use for anything I have to offer — my medical skills, agricultural
knowledge, or anything else. I’m stalled, and have been since I arrived
here.”
“But isn’t there anything else you can do?”
McAleer sighed. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “If there is, I can’t see it.
Look, Edith, I’ve been a missionary all my adult life. Henderson is my third
post. I founded missions on two other planets, got them going, and passed
them on to ordained native assistants after a few years. All still exist, all
are still successful. But on Henderson, I’m a total flop. No one here is
interested in anything I might have to say. Even Zweebl is only here for the
pay.”
“You got it,” Zweebl chirped.
McAleer shrugged. “Anyway, I’m not sure I can take this state of affairs
for much longer. I might just give up.”
“Hmmm,” Edith said. “I’m not sure — no, nothing.”
“What is it?”
“Well ... I’m not sure I’m in favor of the mission thing, Father. I mean,
why not leave the natives alone? I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but — ”
“No, it’s a good question,” McAleer said. He sighed. “The basic reason,
which you can accept or not, is that every being has a soul to save.”
“And it’s up to Terrans to save them?”
“Basically speaking, yes. Orthodox Catholic Terrans and their ordained
converts, that is.”
Edith was unconvinced. “Oh. Well, that’s a little too dogmatic for me.”
 McAleer waved a hand. “Look, Edith, we don’t threaten anyone with
hell; we don’t even preach much. We lead by example. We’re trained to
heal, to teach, to care. It does some good in the universe, or should. But I
haven’t contributed a damned thing to anyone’s physical or spiritual
well-being here on Henderson, and I’m very tired of that.”
“More coffee?” asked Zweebl politely.
Two weeks later, a stronger and more rested Edith had already taken to
long walks along the narrow streets of Trooftown, something McAleer did
only occasionally. A ship might or might not call at the field within the
year. Until then, Edith Manus Daney — broke, jobless and with no
prospects in sight other than the pallid ones afforded by St. Polycarp’s —
was determined to do what she could to survive in as much style as she
could manage on a backwater planet such as Henderson.
It also bothered Edith that she owed McAleer rather a large debt, and