"Alan Dean Foster - Drowning World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

It all seemed very backward to Jemunu-jah, even though he had viewed numerous vits that showed
many worlds where it rained only intermittently and some where water fell from the sky not at all. If
forced to live on such a world, he knew he would shrivel up and die like a gulou nut in the cooking fire or
in one of those marvelous portable cooking devices that could be bought from the humans or the
Deyzara. Rain was life. There would be no flooded forest, or varzea, as the humans called it, without the
rain that fell continuously for 90 percent of the year.

With the water from the many merged rivers of the varzea swirling ten meters below the suspended
walkway and the surface of the land itself drowned twenty to thirty meters below that, he lifted himself up
onto another crossway. This strilk-braced major avenue was strong enough to support multiple paths and
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was hectic with pedestrians. Humans mixed freely with Sakuntala and Deyzara, everyone intent on the
business of the day. Nearby, a spinner team was busy repairing a damaged walkway, extruding the strilk
that kept the town’s buildings and paths suspended safely above the water. The silvery artificial fiber was
attached to huge gray composite pylons that had been driven deep into the bedrock that lay far below the
turbid waters and saturated soil. On the outskirts of the sprawling community a carnival of lesser
structures whose owners were unable to afford pylons hung from the largest, strongest trees.

The single-story building in front of him was the administrative headquarters of the Commonwealth
presence on Fluva. Jemunu-jah had been there a few times before, on official business for the greater
A’Jah clan. That particular business being of lesser importance, it had not given him the opportunity to
meet Lauren Matthias. He had heard that she was very good at her work, not unlike Naneci-tok, and
could speak fluent S’aku. Matthias would not have to strain her larynx in his presence. His command of
terranglo, he had been told, was excellent.

A single human stood guard outside the building. He looked bored, tired, and, despite his protective
military attire, very, very wet. Visible beneath a flipped-up visor, his face was frozen in that faraway
expression many humans acquired after they had spent a year or more on Fluva. He was nearly as tall as
a Sakuntala. Drawing himself up to his full height, Jemunu-jah announced himself.

The guard seemed to respond to his presence only with great difficulty. Water ran down the human’s
face. It was not rainwater, as both of them were standing under the wide lip of the roof overhang that ran
completely around the front and sides of the administration building. Jemunu-jah recognized the facial
moisture as a phenomenon humans called perspiration. It was a condition unknown to the Sakuntala,
although the Deyzara suffered from it as well.

“Limalu di,” the guard mumbled apathetically. Jemunu-jah was not so far removed from the culture of his
kind, nor so educated, that he did not gaze covetously at the long gun that dangled loosely from the
human’s left hand. A single swift snatch and he could have it, he knew. Then, a quick leap over the side
of the deck into the water below, and he would be gone before the sluggish human barely knew it was
missing.

With a sigh, Jemunu-jah shifted his gaze away from the highly desirable weapon, away from the ancient
calling of his ancestors. He was here on clan business. He was civilized now. “I am called Jemunu-jah. I
have appointment with Administrator Matthias,” he responded in terranglo.