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

Therewas permanent dry land, Matthias knew. Up in the western mountains that ran the length of
Fluva’s single substantial landmass. The mountains caught the flow of moisture from the western ocean
and turned it into rain. The rain fed thousands upon thousands of rivers that, for most of the year,
overflowed their banks and drowned the immense tropical woodland that the moisture supported. The
result was varzea, where the land lay thirty meters or so below the surface of the merged rivers. It was a
morass, it was a mess, and the combination had a disconcerting tendency to drive visiting humans insane.

Not the Deyzara. Imported from Tharce IV a couple of hundred years ago, the Deyzara were well
adapted to working in Fluva’s sodden conditions. They thrived in its climate, working the plantations that
produced dozens of highly valued botanicals and other products. Preoccupied with fighting among
themselves, the native Sakuntala had accepted the Deyzara’s presence from the beginning. Unfortunately,
the Deyzara bred rather faster than the locals, with the result that there were now nearly as many Deyzara
as long-arms. Now, a highly vocal and influential faction among the Sakuntala wanted all Deyzara off the
planet.

Yet these Deyzara knew nothing of Tharce IV. Some were fourth- and even fifth-generation Fluva-born.
The consequent conundrum constituted a mess and morass of a different kind. One that fell squarely in
the lap of the resident administrator. Her lap. As if that weren’t enough, she also had to deal with the
plants and animals that were constantly evolving in their attempts to penetrate the perimeter of Taulau
Town and the other tentative Commonwealth outposts that were scattered around the planet. Not to
mention the problems she had with Jack and Andrea. Her husband, a plant physiologist with the
Commonwealth’s research and taxonomy division, seemed reasonably content lately. On the other hand,
Andrea had decided last month, on the occasion of her twelfth birthday and for no discernible reason (at
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least, none that an adult could discern), that from then on her given name would be Fitzwinkle.

And then there was the unnerving problem of Sethwyn Case. “Sethwyn Case—always on the chase,”
the other women posted to Administration were fond of murmuring and sometimes of giggling. One of
many independent contractors who had come to seek their fortune on Fluva, Bioprospector Sethwyn
was tall, handsome, bold, with a grin that induced uncommon tremors in parts of her that she had long
thought tectonically stable. He would be gone for weeks at a time, always returning with this or that
fascinating new specimen or information or, hopefully, profitable discovery.

Once he had checked in, he would always report dutifully in person to Administration. It was not
necessary for him to see her to render his report, but he always did so. At such times he would grin and
joke and make light of the dangers he had faced. Once or twice, he had brushed up against her.
Accidentally, she chose to believe. But there was nothing accidental about that grin or what she felt she
saw in his eyes. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about.

And now this fool—what was his name?—she checked the hard copy. Shadrach Hasselemoga. This
Hasselemoga person, another freelance bioprospector not six months arrived on Fluva, had gone and
gotten himself lost in the depths of the Viisiiviisii. One more irritation to add to a list that was already far
too big. It was her job, as administrator, to send someone to try to find him. Apparently, and remarkably,
the man’s emergency beacon had been completely destroyed or, at the least, damaged beyond repair.

She would have sent Case, but he was out somewhere in the foothills of the Varaku mountains. Jillis