"George R. R. Martin - Loaves and Fishes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

products brewed offworld,” he said. “If so, I would gladly purchase one.”
“Certainly,” the steward said. He reached into the cart and produced a squeeze bulb full of dark brown
liquid, bearing a cursive logo Tuf recognized as Shan-Dellor script. A card plate was offered, and Tuf
punched in his code number. The S’uthlamese currency was the calorie; the charge for the bulb
amounted to almost four-and-a-half times the actual caloric content of the beer, however. “Import costs,”
the steward explained.
Tuf sucked his bulb with ponderous dignity as the tubetrain fell down the elevator toward the surface of
the planet below. It was not a comfortable ride. Haviland Tuf had found the cost of starclass
accommodations prohibitively high, and had therefore settled for premiere class, the next best available,
only to discover himself crammed into a seat seemingly designed for a S’uthlamese child, and a small
S’uthlamese child at that, in a row of eight similar seats divided by a narrow central aisle.
Sheer chance had given him the aisle seat, fortunately; without such placement, Tuf entertained grave
doubts about whether he could have made the voyage at all. But even here, it was impossible to move
without brushing against the bare thin arm of the woman to his left, a contact that Tuf found distasteful in
the extreme. When he sat in his accustomed manner, the crown of his head bumped against the ceiling, so
he was forced to hunker down, and tolerate a most annoying tightness in his neck as a result. Farther
back on the tubetrain, Tuf understood, were the first-, second-, and third-class accommodations. He
resolved to avoid experiencing their dubious comforts at all costs.
When the descent commenced, the majority of the passengers pulled privacy hoods down over their
heads, and punched up the personal diversion of their choice. The offerings, Haviland Tuf noted, included
three different musical programs, a historical drama, two erotic fantasy loops, a business interface,
something listed as a “geometric pavane,” and direct stimulation to the pleasure center of the brain. Tuf
considered investigating the geometric pavane, until discovering that the privacy hood was too small for
his head, his skull being unduly large and long by S’uthlamese standards.
“You the big fly?” asked a voice from across the aisle.
Tuf looked over. The S’uthlamese were sitting in silent isolation, their heads enveloped by their dark
eyeless helmets. Aside from the cluster of stewards far at the rear of the car, the only passenger still in the
world of reality was the man in the aisle seat across from him one row back. Long, braided hair,
copper-colored skin, and plump, fleshy cheeks branded the man as much an offworlder as Tuf himself.
“The big fly, right?”
“I am Haviland Tuf, an ecological engineer.”
“I knew you were a fly,” the man said. “Me, too. I’m Ratch Norren, from Vandeen.” He held out a hand.
Haviland Tuf looked at it. “I am familiar with the ancient ritual of shaking hands, sir. I have noted that you
are carrying no weapons. It is my understanding that the custom was originally intended to establish this
fact. I am unarmed as well. You may now withdraw your hand, if you please.”
Ratch Norren grinned and pulled back his arm. “You’re a funny duck,” he said.
“Sir,” said Haviland Tuf, “I am neither a funny duck nor a large fly. I would think this much obvious to
any person of normal human intelligence. Perhaps standards are different on Vandeen.”
Ratch Norren reached up and pinched his own cheek. It was a round, full, fleshy cheek, covered with
red powder, and he gave it a good strong pinch. Tuf decided this was either a particularly perverse tic or
a Vandeeni gesture the significance of which escaped him. “The fly stuff,” the man said, “that’s just
spinneret talk. An idiom. They call all us offworlders flies.”
“Indeed,” said Tuf.
“You are the one who arrived in that giant warship, right? The one who was on all the newsfeeds?”
Norren did not wait for an answer. “Why are you wearing the wig?”
“I am traveling incognito,” said Haviland Tuf, “though it appears that you have penetrated my disguise,
sir.”
Norren pinched his cheek again. “Call me Ratch,” he said. He looked Tuf up and down:. “Pretty feeb
disguise, though. Wig or no wig, you’re still a big fat giant with a complexion like a mushroom.”
“In future, I shall employ makeup,” said Tuf. “Fortunately, none of the native S’uthlamese have displayed