"Janet Kagan - Mirabile" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kagan Janet)

on Chris’s shrimp. I doubt they’ll make you a formal call when they’re done. Their
names are Emile Pilot Stirzaker and Francois Cobbler Pastides and, right now, they
can’t spell either without dropping letters.”
So he thought they’d both been smoking dumbweed. Fair enough. I simmered
down and reconsidered him. I’d’ve bet money he was the one who sidetracked
Pastides and Stirzaker into the eating binge.
Recognition struck at last: this was the guy Elly’s kids called “Noisy.” The first
thing he’d done on moving into the neighborhood was outshout every one of ’em in
one helluva contest. He was equally legendary for his stories, his bells, and his ability
to keep secrets. I hadn’t met him, but I’d sure as hell heard tell.
I must have said the nickname aloud, because Denness said, “Yes, ‘Noisy.’ Is
that enough to get me a hearing?”
 “It is.” It was my turn to apologize. “Sorry. What more do you want me to hear?”
“You should, I think, hear Stirzaker imitate his monster’s bellow of rage.”
It took me a long moment to get his drift, but get it I did. “I’m on my way,” I
said. I snapped off and started repacking my gear.
Mike stared at me. “Annie? What did I miss?”
“You ever know anybody who got auditory hallucinations on dumbweed?”
“Shit,” he said. “No.” He scrambled for his own pack.
“Not you,” I said. “I need you here to coddle those daffodils, check the
environmental conditions that produced ’em, and call me if Dragon’s Teeth pop up
anywhere else.” I shouldered my pack and finished with a glare and a growl: “That
should be enough to keep you out of bonfires while I’m gone, shouldn’t it?”
By the time I grounded in the clearing next to Elly’s lodge, I’d decided I was on a
wild moose chase. Yeah, I know the Earth-authentic is wild goose, but “wild moose”
was Granddaddy Jason’s phrase. He’d known Jason—the original first generation
Jason—well before the Dragon’s Teeth had started popping up.
One look at the wilderness where Elly’s lodge is now and Jason knew she had the
perfect EC for moose. She hauled the embryos out of ships’ storage and set them
thawing. Built up a nice little herd of the things and turned ’em loose. Not a one of
them survived—damn foolish creatures died of a taste for a Mirabilan plant they
couldn’t metabolize.
Trying to establish a viable herd got to be an obsession with Jason. She must’ve
spent years at it, off and on. She never succeeded but somebody with a warped
sense of humor named the lake Loch Moose and it stuck, moose or no moose.
Loch Moose looked as serene as it always did this time of year. The water lilies
were in full bloom—patches of velvety red and green against the sparkles of sunlight
off the water. Here and there I saw a ripple of real trout, Earth-authentic.
On the bank to the far right, Susan’s troop of otters played tag, skidding down
the incline and hitting the water with a splash. They whistled encouragement to each
other like a pack of fans at a ballgame. Never saw a creature have more pure fun than
an otter—unless it was a dozen otters, like now.
The pines were that dusty gold that meant I’d timed it just right to see Loch
Moose smoke. There’s nothing quite so beautiful as that drift of pollen fog across
the loch. It would gild rocks and trees alike until the next rainfall.
Monster, my ass—but where better for a wild moose chase?
I clambered down the steps to Elly’s lodge, still gawking at the scenery, so I was
totally unprepared for the EC in the lobby. If that bright-eyed geneticist back on
Earth put the double whammy on any of the human genes in the cold banks they sent
along (swore they hadn’t, but after the kangaroo rex, damnify believe anything the