"George R. R. Martin - Guardians" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

Guardians
Analog
October, 1981

Haviland Tuf thought the Six Worlds Bio-Agricultural Exhibition a great disappointment.
He had spent a long wearying day on Brazelourn, trooping through the cavernous exhibition halls, pausing
now and then to give a cursory inspection to a new grain hybrid or a genetically improved insect.
Although the Ark’s cell library held cloning material for literally millions of plant and animal species from
an uncounted number of worlds, Haviland Tuf was nonetheless always alert for any opportunity to
expand his stock-in-trade.
But few of the displays on Brazelourn seemed especially promising, and as the hours passed Tuf grew
bored and uncomfortable in the jostling, indifferent crowds. People swarmed everywhere—Vagabonder
tunnel-farmers in deep maroon furs, plumed and perfumed Areeni landlords, somber nightsiders and
brightly garbed evernoons from New Janus, and a plethora of the native Brazeleen. All of them made
excessive noise and favored Tuf with curious stares as he passed among them. Some even brushed up
against him, bringing a frown to his long face.
Ultimately, seeking escape from the throngs, Tuf decided he was hungry. He pressed his way through the
fairgoers with dignified distaste, and emerged from the vaulting five-story Ptolan Exhibit Hall. Outside,
hundreds of vendors had set up booths between the great buildings. The man selling pop-onion pies
seemed least busy of those nearby, and Tuf determined that a pop-onion pie was the very thing he
craved.
“Sir,” he said to the vendor, “I would have a pie.”
The pieman was round and pink and wore a greasy apron. He opened his hotbox, reached in with a
gloved hand, and extracted a hot pie. When he pushed it across the counter at Tuf, he stared. “Oh,” he
said, “you’re a big one.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Haviland Tuf. He picked up the pie and bit into it impassively.
“You’re an offworlder,” the pieman observed. “Not from no place nearby, neither.”
Tuf finished his pie in three neat bites, and cleaned his greasy fingers on a napkin. “You belabor the
obvious, sir,” he said. He held up a long, callused finger. “Another,” he said.
Rebuffed, the vendor fetched out another pie without further observations, letting Tuf eat in relative
peace. As he savored the flaky crust and tartness within, Tuf studied the milling fairgoers, the rows of
vendors’ booths, and the five great halls that loomed over the landscape. When he had done eating, he
turned back to the pieman, his face as blank as ever. “Sir. If you will, a question.”
“What’s that?” the other said gruffly.
“I see five exhibition halls,” said Haviland Tuf. “I have visited each in turn.” He pointed. “Brazelourn,
Vale Areen, New Janus, Vagabond, and here Ptola.” Tuf folded his hands together neatly atop his
bulging stomach. “Five, sir. Five halls, five worlds. No doubt, being a stranger as I am, I am unfamiliar
with some subtle point of local usage, yet I am perplexed. In those regions where I have heretofore
traveled, a gathering calling itself the Six Worlds Bio-Agricultural Exhibition might be expected to include
exhibits from six worlds. Plainly that is not the case here. Perhaps you might enlighten me as to why?”
“No one came from Namor.”
“Indeed,” said Haviland Tuf.
“On account of the troubles,” the vendor added.
“All is made clear,” said Tuf. “Or, if not all, at least a portion. Perhaps you would care to serve me
another pie, and explain to me the nature of these troubles. I am nothing if not curious, sir. It is my great
vice, I fear.”
The pieman slipped on his glove again and opened the hotbox. “You know what they say. Curiosity
makes you hungry.”
“Indeed,” said Tuf. “I must admit I have never heard them say that before.”
The man frowned. “No, I got it wrong. Hunger makes you curious, that’s what it is. Don’t matter. My