"Lee Killough - Symphony for a Lost Traveler" - читать интересную книгу автора (Killough Lee)

Cimela kept working with the synthesizer, at the same time deciding on secondary and tertiary musical
lines. During rests she studied the holos of the ship. It appeared strictly utilitarian, without decoration or
color. Ceilings pressed low overhead, barely centimeters above the squatly arched doorways. The crew
apparently never used furniture except tables and something like low blanket racks with padded bars.
Water-filled mats on the floor served as beds. Beyond that the holos told her nothing about the aliens.
She set them aside.
Every evening she ate with Ashendene in the domed study. The floor glowed beneath them; Earth
shone overhead; moonwine filled their glasses like luminous silver. Ashendene entertained her with stories
about his early days mining the asteroids. "IMDI was just me, five buddies, and a patched junk ship in
those days."
Cimela smiled at him over her wineglass. "You sound like you enjoyed it. Why did you give it up for a
desk?"
He shrugged, looking past her at the sky. "The asteroids are just a way station."
After dinner they took tea in the study, or he showed her through another portion of the house. It had
the facilities of a small colony: laboratories, workshops, staff apartments, and a hydroponics farm.
Working on the ship here, no wonder he had been able to keep his find a secret. At some point they
passed to a first-name basis, and one evening during her second week there she had the chance to learn
about his love of fantastic art.
"I respect people who dream," he said, "even if it's nightmares, like Bosch. So few people dream these
days. And speaking of dreaming, how is your work coming?"
The question had been inevitable. She sighed. "Slowly, as always. I'm still undecided about the lead
instruments. Perhaps I'll use a recorder and a samisen."
He blinked. "A what?"
"The samisen is a three-stringed Japanese guitar with a long neck. The recorder is a very old flute
that's played like a clarinet. It went out of common use about the time of Bach, at least until the
Neo-Renaissance movement revived interest in it. It has a lovely mellow sound."
A crease appeared between the moondust eyes. "Don't forget you're writing this for modern ears."
As though modern sound could not come out of old instruments. But that was what came of discussing
instruments with a non-musician. "Of course. When do I need to be finished?"
"The dinner will wait for the music. Oh, I almost forgot. Albert." He beckoned to the butler. "Will you
bring Cimela the envelope from my desk?"
Her heart went into fortissimo at the sight of the small, square gray envelope.
"The alien construct program?"
Ashendene finished his wine. "Now you can start on the holo track, too, and stop being
underworked."
She laughed at his teasing, but could hardly wait to finish eating. Ashendene appeared to read her
mind. He said little the remainder of the meal and did not ask her to stay for tea afterward.
Back in her rooms, Cimela slipped the minidisc into her computer and waited curled cross-legged in
her chair. The image appeared one line at a time, as though being sketched inside the screen. It pivoted at
the same time, the far side of the three-dimensional shape remaining visible through the forming lines of
the near side. With every turn, however, more details appeared-- feathers, the facets of compound eyes,
fingernails-- followed by textures and finally by color, until the screen held a construction that did not
look like a computer drawing but a holophoto of an actual being.
The alien stood on two muscular legs that bent strangely but carried him like coiled springs. He had no
wings after all: small arms, also oddly jointed, folded across the golden chest, ending in hands with a
thumb and two long, many-jointed fingers. Feather-fringed ears belied out from the sides of the broad
head. Faceted opal eyes dreamed placidly above nasal slits and a smiling bow of mouth.
Cimela sighed in satisfaction. He was alien, yes. Completely inhuman-- she could not even identify the
tools hanging on his belt-- but utterly fascinating.