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

place to find joy babies; young, pretty, planet-born girls who
work at the Colony Punch Center during the day, and spend
their evenings here competing for the attention of the officers.
Sitting here with Arnie, I can't distinguish a colonist's
daughter from one of my friends or relatives. They wouldn't
know me, either.
Once, at home, I try to talk with a few of these friends
about my feelings. But I discover that whatever female
patterns they've borrowed are superficial ones; none of them
bother to grow an extra lobe, but merely tuck the Terran
pattern into a corner of their own for handy reference. They
are most of them on sulfas. Hard and shiny toys, they skip
like pebbles over the surface of the colonists' lives.
Then they go home, revert to their own free forms, and
enjoy their mathematics, colors, compositions, and seedings.
"Why me?" I demand of the Warden. "Why two lobes?
Why me?"
"We felt you'd be more efficient," he answers. "And while
you're here, which you seldom are these days, you'd better
revert to other shapes. Your particles may be damaged if you
hold that woman form too long."
Oh, but you don't know, I want to tell him. You don't
know I'll hold it forever. If I'm damaged or dead, you'll put
me into the cell banks, and you'll be amazed, astonished,
terrified, to discover that I come out complete, all Martha. I
can't be changed.
"You little lump of protagon," my Uncle mumbles bitterly.
"You'll neyer amount to anything, you'll never be a Warden.
Have you done any of your own work recently?"
I say, "Yes, I've done some crystal divisions, and re-grown
them in non-established patterns." My Uncle is in a bad
mood, as 'he's kicking sulfa and his nerve tissue is addled. I'm
wise to speak quietly to him, but he still grumbles.
"I can't understand why you like being a two-lobed pack of
giggles. I couldn't wait to get out of it. And you were so dead
against it to begin with."
"Well, I have learned," I start to say, but can't explain what
it is I'm still learning, and close my eyes. Part of it is that on
the line between the darkness and the brightness it's easiest to
float. I've never wanted to practise only easy things. My
balance is damaged. I never had to balance. It's not a term or
concept that I understand even now, at home, in free form.
Some impress of Martha's pattern lies on my own brain cells.
I suspect it's permanent damage, which gives me joy. That's
what I mean about not understanding it. I am taught to strive
for perfection. How can I be pleased with this, which may be
a catastrophe?
Arnie carves on a breadth of kaku wood, bringing out to
the surface a seascape. Knots become clots of spray, a flaw
becomes wind-blown spume. I want to be Martha. I'd like to