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

"You look tired," I say, and he comes to me, to be soothed,
to be loved in his flesh, his single form, his search for the
truth in the darkness of the viewing cubicle. At present he's
doing studies of murger birds. Their spinal cavities are large,
air-filled ovals, and their bone is extremely porous, which
permits them to soar to great heights.
The koota no longer races on the wind-blown beaches; she
lies at our feet, looking into the distance. The wall must be
transparent to her eyes, I feel that beyond it she sees clearly
how the racers go, down the long, bright curve of sand in the
morning sun. She sighs, and lays her head down on her
narrow, delicate paws. I look into the distance too: bright
beaches and Amie, carrying me from his ship. But he will not
carry me again.
Arnie says. "I seem to be tired all the time." He puts his
head on my breast. "I don't think the food's agreeing with me,
lately."
"Do you suffer pains?" I ask him, curiously.
"Suffer," he mutters. "What kind of nonsense is that, with
analgesics. No I don't suffer. I just don't feel well."
He's absorbed in murger birds, kaku wood, he descends into
the bottom of the darks and rises up like a rocket across the
horizon into the thin clarity above, while I float. I no
longer dare to breathe. I'm afraid of disturbing everything. I
do not want anything. His head lies gently on my breast and I
will not disturb him.
"Oh. My God," Arnie says, and I know what it's come to,
even before he begins to choke, and his muscles leap although
I hold him in my arms. I know his heart is choking on
massive doses of blood; the brilliance fades from his eyes and
they begin to go dark while I tightly hold him. If he doesn't
see me as he dies, will I be here?
I can feel, under my fingers, how rapidly his skin cools. I
must put him down, here with his carvings and his papers,
and I must go home. But I lift Arnie in my arms, and call the
koota, who gets up rather stiffly. It's long after dark, and I
carry him slowly, carefully, home to what he called a crystal
palace, where the Warden and my Uncle are teaching each
other to play chess with a set some space captain gave them in
exchange for seed crystals. They sit in a bloom of light,
sparkling, their old brains bent over the chessmen, as I
breathe open the door and carry Arnie in.
First, my Uncle gives me just a glance, but then another
glance, and a hard stare. "Is that the Doctor?" he asks.
I put Arnie down and hold one of his cold hands. "War-
den," I say, on my knees, on eye level with the chessboard
and its carved men. "Warden, can you put him in one of the
banks?"
The Warden turns to look at me, as hard as my Uncle.
"You've become deranged, trying to maintain two lobes," he