"Nancy Kress - Nebula Awards Showcase 2003" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kress Nancy)

“Now you’ve scared the crap out of them,” said Horace, who was the director of theProjeto Brasileiro
Nacional de Assimilação do Índio . “They’ll think this place is haunted.”

“They should have called ahead,” said Maria. “I’d be out of sight, like a good little ghost.”

Horace ground his cigarette into the thin rain forest soil. “Go on down to the A/V trailer.” he said. “I’ll
give you a call in a couple of minutes.” He made an attempt to smooth his rough hair, and started after the
truck.

Maria took a last drag on the cigarette and started in the opposite direction, toward the Audio/Visual
trailer, where she could monitor what was going on in Intake without being seen. Horace was fluent in the
major Amazonian dialects of Tupi-Guaraní, Arawak, and Ge, but Maria had a gut-level understanding
that he didn’t. She was the distant voice in his ear, mumbling advice into a microphone as he interviewed
tribe after refugee tribe. She was the one picking out the nuances in language, guiding him as he spoke,
like a conscience.

Or like a ghost. She glanced over her shoulder, but the truck and the Indians were out of sight. No
matter where they were from, the Indians had some idea of how white people and black people looked,
but you’d think they’d never seen an albino in their lives. Her strange eyes, her pale, translucent skin over
African features. To most of them, she was an unknown and sometimes terrifying magical entity. To
her . . . well . . . most of them were no more or less polite than anyone she’d ever met stateside.

She stopped to scuff her cigarette into the dirt, leaned over to pick up the butt, and listened. Another
engine. Not the heavy grind of a truck this time.

She started back toward the gate. In the treetops beyond Xingu’s chain-link fence and scattered asphalt
roofs, monkeys screamed and rushed through the branches like a visible wind. Headlights flickered
between tree trunks and dense undergrowth and a Jeep lurched out of the forest. Bright red letters were
stenciled over its hood:Hiller Project .

Maria waved the driver to a stop. He and his passenger were both wearing bright red jackets, withHiller
Project embroidered over the front pocket. The driver had a broad, almost Mexican face. The
passenger was a black guy, deeply blue-black, like he was fresh off the boat from Nigeria. He gave
Maria a funny look, but she knew what it was. He’d never seen an albino either.

“We’re following the truck from Ipiranga,” the black man said in Portuguese. His name was stenciled
over his heart.N’Lykli .

She pointed down the dirt road where the overhead floodlights cut the descending dusk. “Intake’s over
there,” she said in the same language. “You should have called ahead. You’re lucky we’ve got space for
them.”

“Thanks,” said N’Lykli, and the driver put the Jeep in gear.

“Hey,” said Maria as they started to pull away. “What’s a Hiller Project?”

Another cultural rescue group, she figured, but the black guy gave her a different funny look. She didn’t
recognize it and he didn’t answer. The Jeep pulled away, jouncing down the rutted access road.

Maria groped in her pocket for another cigarette, took one out of the pack, then stuck it back in. Instead