"Kelly,_James_Patrick_-_Ninety_Percent_of_Everything" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

I'd spent the last two days confirming my discovery, and calculating the rate of change. I was trying to decide how much to reveal -- because here I was, Wetherall's magnificently paid shitdog expert, the rational scientist who had replaced mooncalf Thorp -- and I didn't know what it meant. But then I wasn't sure what any shitdog behavior meant.
"The shitdogs are eating and excreting faster," I blurted out. "The third pile here is accumulating at almost twice the rate of the first two."
"Hmmm," said Nguyen. "Could it be that they're adjusting to earth conditions -- getting better at whatever it is they do?"
"They're showing no comparable changes at any of the other sites," I said. "I checked the international database earlier today."
"Maybe it's a response to our activities," said Nguyen.
"That's my guess, but don't quote me."
"Which activities? Our construction is taking place far from them. We're observing them, but they've been observed before."
I shrugged. "I don't know how this will affect the project," I said, "but it does represent an advance in shitdog studies. For the first time we can be certain that the piles are a product rather than a byproduct. If they were only concerned with getting enough to 'eat,' their rate wouldn't change. The fact that they've speeded up confirms that it's production."
"They feel acknowledged, perhaps," said Nguyen playfully. "They wish to encourage art appreciation. Fair enough. More jewels to look at. But if this news gets out, it's going to attract even more attention."
"It'll get out eventually," I said. "Exobiologists will take notice; shitdog behavior doesn't change often. And it isn't happening at the other sites."
"Hmmm," said Nguyen. "Maybe we should build lifthouses at all the other sites too. Then Eastline wouldn't be so distinctive."
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell this to Wetherall until I've figured out the implications."
I didn't tell Nguyen my suspicion that the configuration of the piles and jewels might have some semiotic significance. Aunt Lindsay had done her dissertation on how the shape of African termite mounds was evolutionarily designed to communicate to other termite colonies. If, as it appeared, shitdog behavior could respond to that of humans, then that suggested the possibility of a feedback loop -- shitdog behavior influencing humans, who then influenced the shitdogs. A kind of subliminal, semiotic communication. But this notion was so Thorplike I did not want to have to admit to it until I understood more.
Nguyen was gazing up at pile C. He turned and winked, as if letting me in on a joke. Only I didn't get it. Not all signs are so easily read.
* * * *
The base rolled up and stopped, clicking in the heat. The driver was dressed entirely in denim, his red-bearded face shadowed by a hat the size of a manhole cover. He motioned for us to enter; the cab had been fitted with first class airline seats. Nguyen climbed in first. When the driver reached out to help me up, his grip, cool as a Billy Bar, made me do a double take. It was Wetherall.
"Great to see you again, Liz." His big, oblivious smile flashed through the fake whiskers. There was no apology for humiliating me outside the Jolly Freeze van.
Nguyen took it in stride. "So I take it you've gotten yourself instructed on how to drive this from the crew."
"I arranged a private tutorial."
"You might at least have let us know in advance," I said.
"Then Janglish would've had to be here to make sure I didn't have any unscheduled fun."
"Oh, Murk's not that bad," Nguyen murmured, "for a stone-hearted workaholic. You took a nosegay? We'll be parking right next to Stink Central."
Wetherall slipped into the driver's seat in front of us and strapped himself in. "About twenty minutes ago. When I was a kid I used to grow orchids. I had this one cattleya, Bealls Red. It was dark as blood and had a fragrance big enough to fill a room." He took a deep breath. "That's what I'm getting now." He leaned back in his seat, eyes glazing momentarily at the memory. "The nosegays are an extraordinary accomplishment. A shame we have to hold them off the market."
"You're not going to sell them?" I said. "But think of the applications."
Wetherall punched the code that started up the turbine. "Liz, the big stink is my fence; it's how I'm going to keep the world out. Why would I pull that fence down after I've gone to all this trouble to acquire it?"
The arrogance of the man made me momentarily dizzy. Or maybe it was the swelter in the cab. I could feel sweat tickle down my side.
"Doesn't that beard make you warm, Wetherall?" I said. "I thought you liked life on ice."
"It _is_ a little close in here." Nguyen swabbed his forehead with a butter-colored handkerchief.
"Oh, my clothes are air-conditioned," he said. "I couldn't think straight without them."
* * * *
Wetherall, Nguyen and I giggled like kids as the shitdog chased us. Of course, Wetherall's nosegays had something to do with our delight. We sat strapped into seats underneath a nuglas bubble. The base roared across the salt flat on its six treads, kicking up scuffs of salt and sand and scraps of the low, dry junipers that grew here and there in the basin. We were headed away from the Eastline A pile; the shitdog galloped in its ungainly way behind us like a nightmare rocking horse. As we drove, we fired a simulation tracking beam up at a helicopter that was standing-in for Wetherall's future house. So far, so good -- no matter our position or speed, the beam remained unbroken.
Our initial approach hadn't aroused their interest. They ignored us as we zoomed around the pile, and they ignored us when we idled a few yards away from them. They hadn't even sniffed at the mobile base, let alone nibbled. That was when Wetherall brought out a smart lasso. As we pulled alongside one he opened the window, leaned out, swung four big loops and let it fly. The running noose slithered over the shitdog's head. Wetherall tied the end to the armrest on the door and then stomped on the brakes.
We lost the door but had finally provoked one into chasing us.
It smelled like heaven's own bakery. "Chocolate-covered raspberries!" shouted Wetherall. "Bittersweet chocolate, I mean."
"Chai tea, with plenty of honey and buttermilk," corrected Nguyen. "And perhaps a crumb of pistachio baklava, too."
Myself, I kept catching smell-glimpses of Billybars and Charley Chuncolate Cones. Why should activating my odor-pleasure centers recall Jolly Freeze products? Those were Wetherall's positive smell associations, not mine.
"Liz." Wetherall touched my wrist. "Do you think it's angry at us?"
I turned to the beast that galumphed patiently after us. "Who can say? We've hardly worked out their vocabulary of expressions -- short of barking at the Chileans that one time, they don't have any. It certainly seems more sporting than angry, though. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Yes," said Wetherall. "Though I could be projecting. That is to say, sporting is the perfect word for how I feel. Our mobile base is going to work just fine, isn't it?"
"All the data is not yet in," Nguyen said. He glanced at me significantly. I guessed he was waiting for me to mention the changes I'd observed. "Remember, the real base is going to be towing a house six times the mass of Laputa. That will reduce maneuverability significantly."
"Nevertheless -- "
As they debated, it occurred to me that we'd stumbled onto something that would make a tourist attraction if the word got out -- shitdog-wrangling. The nosegays added a certain essential elan to it all. I was sure a lot of people would pay handsomely for the fun we were having. The tickets we could sell would pay for a dozen Laputas. But with Wetherall's deep pockets and craving for privacy, I doubted whether anyone but he would ever sample this novelty.
* * * *
That night, Wetherall stayed with us for the first time. Nguyen had Laputa towed to where Wetherall's lifthouse was under construction. Since this site was almost three kilometers closer to the piles, we had to double our dosage of nosegays to cope with the big stink.
Over dinner, Wetherall was talkative and charming, Nguyen was taciturn. Finally he spoke. "Perhaps it's time to name your house, Wetherall?"
"How about Queen Jolly Freeze?" I said. "Pretend it's just a floating ice cream truck. That way no one will guess it's where you live." This time I wanted Nguyen to turn and wink, laugh with me at this ludicrous man. But he ignored me.
Wetherall was busy fantasizing about his house. "When we run the first test, I want to be on board," he said. "Let's take it over pile A, so I can try the viewing room. If we need to make any adjustments, I want them done as soon as possible."
"You sure you can steel yourself to look down from such a height?" said Nguyen.
"At least there, I'll have something worth looking at."
"All right," sighed Nguyen. "I suppose it's time I see these jewels for myself."