"James Tiptree Jr. - Your Haploid Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiptree James Jr)

fell into place. Why had I not considered the city more? When I turned Ovancha
was in the room. His gray eyes flicked over my bench. "Good morning, Reshvid
Ovancha. Has there been word from Pax?" Some of the anger fell from his face,
leaving it grave and full of human trouble. Human! How desperately they had
wanted the meaningless certification. How intricately they had built! Ovancha
must have been one of the leaders-exceptional Ovancha, able to dare, to cope
with us. He was speaking with obvious pain. "Reshvid lan, why do you- We ... I
have welcomed you as a friend-" "We, too, wish to be friends." "Then why do
you occupy yourself with revolting, unspeakable things?" He was asking in all
seriousness. It was not just a futile plot! It was a real and terrible
delusion. They had somehow come to hate what they were so unbearably that they
were living a myth of denial-a psychotic fantasy. Had Harkness done it? What
had he told them? No matter-we had punctured it now and there was no hope for
us. But I must answer his question. "I am a scientist, Reshvid Ovancha," I
said slowly. "In my world I was trained to study all living things. To
understand. To us, life of any sort is neither good nor bad. We study all that
lives, all life." "All life," Ovancha repeated desolately, his eyes on mine.
"Life-" Pitying I made my greatest blunder. "Reshvid Ovancha, perhaps you
might be interested to know that in my original world we had once a very great
problem because our people were not all alike. We had not two but many
different peoples who hated and feared each other. But we came to live
together as one family, as brothers-" His eyes had dilated, and I saw his
nostrils flare. His lips rolled back from his teeth-the face of one hearing
the ultimate insult. His hand twitched toward his ornamental side arm. Then
his lids fell. He turned on his heel and was gone. The least likely male can
move with unexpected agility if he is sufficiently motivated, and if his
employers have insisted on regular training courses. As Ovancha went
downstairs, I went out the lab window with a bundle, and over the kitchen roof
to the wall, which was set with broken glass. I landed in the alley on an
ankle that felt severed, and a cheek and arm full of glass. I put on the
Esthaan cloak and hobbled up the alley. Each block had a walled center alley
that concealed one from the sides, but I had to cross the wide avenues between
blocks. Luckily it was just dawn. I had made three crossings when a big roller
full of uniforms whooshed by the end of the block I was in. I limped four more
blocks, my face and arm on fire, and my ankle gave out. There was a trash
recess in the wall. I dodged in-how ^| quickly fugitives connect with
garbage!-and listened to the Esthaan police bell clanging from the direction
of my home. Suddenly a big mustard-colored roller came swishing into my alley
and stopped fifty feet away. I heard the driver get out. A gate bell tinkled,
and the gate opened and closed. Silence. I made it to the roller, pulled open
the tailgate and scrambled inside. It was roomy and dark, with a piercing
odor. I got behind some crates next to the canvas that closed off the driver's
compartment. The tailgate opened and a crate slammed in. Then we were off. I
believe I wept when I heard the sounds coming from the crate. If my luck
held-if the driver didn't take all the crates out-if I could hold out against
what was now clearly poison in my cuts-if... For hours of agony the truck
started and stopped, opened to receive more crates, slammed and jolted on. The
noise inside would have covered a trumpet solo, and the smell was a stench.