"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Dancers Like Children" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

than I am now. But I understand that you need to investigate the natives in
their own environment, so we have taken no action."
The wind played with my sand scarf. A runnel of sweat trickled down my
back. "I'm not licensed to practice xenopsychology."
"That's a lie, Dr. Schafer. I researched you rather heavily before I
went to the expense of bringing you here. The Ethics Committee suspended your
license for one year as a formality. That was nine years ago. You are still
licensed, and still interested in the field."
I pulled my arm from hers. I had sat by the sea that first morning on
Minar, too. I had been thirty years old and so sure I could understand
everyone, human or alien. And I did understand, finally, too late.
"I don't want to do this job," I said.
"You're the only one who can do it." She had clasped her hands behind
her back. "All the other xenopsychologists in the quadrant have specialized in
one species or refuse to do forensic work. Besides, no one is better at this
than you."
"They charged me with inciting genocide on Minar."
"And acquitted you. Your actions were logical, given the evidence."
Logical. I should have seen how the land encroached, poisoned, ate away
human skin. We learned later that Minaran skin oils were also acidic, but
didn't cause the same kind of damage. The original colonists had died first
because of land poisoning, not because the Minarans were acting on an old
vendetta. All the work the natives had done, they had done to save the
colonists. I had ascribed a human motive -- the wrong human motive -- and had
decimated a sentient race. "I don't want to make the same mistake again."
"Good," she said. The wind blew her scarf across her face. She brushed
the cloth away with a cream-covered hand. "Because then you won't."
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III
The cool air in the meeting room smelled of metallic processing. I
shifted in my chair. Despite the reflective cream and clothing, my skin had
turned a blotchy red. My scalp itched. Little raised bumps had formed
underneath my hair. I was afraid to touch them, afraid they might burst.
I glanced at the others. Davis, a thin, wiry man from Lina Base, headed
the laboratory team. Sanders, head of the medical unit, had hands half the
size of mine. I found myself staring at her, wondering how someone so petite
could spend her time sifting through the clues left in a dead body. And of
course, Netta. Her hair was dark, her skin bronzed by the planet's sun. Netta
had brought them all in to brief me. The only person missing was the head of
the city's security.
The artificial lighting seemed pale after the brightness of the sun.
The building was made of old white terraplastic -- the kind colonists brought
with them to form temporary structures until they could build from the
planet's natural materials. Wood and stone were not scarce commodities here,
yet it was almost as if the original colonists had been afraid to use anything
native.
Finally a small man, his hair greased back and his face darkened by the
sun, entered. He dumped papers and holotubes on the desk in front of Netta.
"Thank you," she said. She pushed her chair back and caught the small man by
the arm. "Justin, this is D. Marvin Tanner. He heads the security forces for