"When I Was Miss Dow by Sonya Dorman" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nebula Award Stories 2)

"You see?" he says.
I do see, looking at the film in the darkness where perfec-
tion or disaster may be viewed, and I'm twined in the paradox
which confronts me here. The darker the room, the brighter
the screen and the clearer the picture. Less light! and the truth
becomes more evident. Either the koota is properly jointed
and may be bred without danger of passing the gene on to her
young, or 'she is not properly jointed, and cannot be used.
Less light, more truth! And the Doctor -is green sculpturea
little darker and he would be a bronzebut his natural color
is pink alabaster.
"You see," the Doctor says, and I do try to see. He points
his wax pencil at one hip joint on the film, and says, "A
certain amount of osteo-arthritic build-up is already evident.
The cranial rim is wearing down, she may go lame. She'll
certainly pass the defect on to some of her pups, if she's
bred."
This Koota has been my playmate and friend for a long,
time. She retains a single form, that of koota, full of love and
beautiful speed; she has been a source of pleasure and pride.
Dr. Proctor, of the pewter hair, will discuss the anatomical
defects of the koota in a gentle and cultivated voice. I am
disturbed. There shouldn't be any need to explain the truth,
which is evident. Yet it seems that to comprehend the
exposures, I require a special education. It's said that the
more you have seen, the quicker you are to sort the eternal
verities into one pile and the dismal illusions into another.
How is it that sometimes the Doctor wears a head which
resembles that of a koota, with a splendid muzzle and noble
brow?
Suddenly he gives a little laugh and points the end of the
wax pencil at my navel, announcing: "There. There, it is
essential that the belly button be attached, or you'll bear no
children." Thoughts of offspring had occurred to me. But
weren't we discussing my racer? The radiograph film is still
clipped to the view screen, and upon it, spread-eagled, ap-
pears the bony Rorschach of my koota bitch, her hip joints
expressing doom.
I wish the Doctor would put on the daylight. I come to the
conclusion that there's a limit to how much truth I can
examine, and the more I submit to the conditions necessary
for examining it, the more unhappy I become.
Dr. Proctor is a man of such perfect integrity that he
continues to talk about bones and muscles until I'm ready to
scream for mercy. He has done something that is unusual and
probably prohibited, but he's not aware of it. I mean it must
be prohibited in his culture, where it seems they play on each
other, but not with each other. I am uneasy, fluctuating.
He snaps two switches. Out goes the film and on goes the
sun, making my eyes stream with sensitive and grateful tears,