"Aldridge, Ray - The Spine DiversV1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Aldridge Ray)

"The milk of virgins?"

He shrugged. "Have you never heard of hormone therapy? Our alchemists are state-of-the-art."

I laughed; Odorini was an entertaining companion.

We passed through a portal into the laboratories, which exactly resembled every other industrial laboratory I had ever seen, except for the faint but pervasive stink of fish. White-coated technicians tended rows of gleaming machines, and in one corner was a dissection station.

"Look at this," he said, taking me to a trough on which a rainbow ripper lay, its colors subdued by death. "A fine specimen, eh?"

"I suppose." The fish gave off a chill; evidently it had just been removed from refrigeration. I reached out to touch one of its fins, and cut my finger deeply enough to bleed a little.

Odorini gave me a clean cloth to wrap around the finger. "Dangerous creature, even frozen," he said.

My annoyance surfaced again. Odorini was an intelligent man; why had he brought me here? "I don't believe my fans will be very interested in the mechanics of the process," I said, somewhat sourly.

Odorini assumed an expression of contrition, which might even have been genuine. "Sorry," he said. "But I'm striving for balance in my presentation. I just want you to always keep in mind that despite the splendor and bravery of the divers, the stirring ceremonies, the glorious deeds and noble stories. . .the final result is nothing but a big dead fish."

"You're making editorial suggestions?"

He smiled and said nothing.

A technician began to carve up the fish as we left.

When we joined the ordinary tourist route down to the Well, I saw that Odorini had described it accurately. The dank walls compressed my spirits. I felt the weight of the Spine poised above me, ready to crush. The torches gave off a dense smoke, so that visibility was limited to a few yards. The eerie music Odorini had mentioned was thoroughly eerie.

The whole thing reminded me of a particularly well-designed amusement park.

Eventually we came to a wide corridor, where the ceiling lifted away and a number of other tourists and their guides waited. A long window was set into one side of this gallery. Odorini led me to it.

Below was a great natural cavern, converted into a barbaric and sumptuous banquet hall. Gas flares shed a harsh brilliant light on hundreds of divers, who sat at tables and lolled on couches. Servants scurried back and forth, carrying platters of food and drink.

"The Hall of the Tides," said Odorini. "Where the divers who do not swim this night go to console themselves with various pleasures. Where new divers are made."

I saw what he meant; here and there men and women were copulating, some in shadowy alcoves at the back of the hall, a few on the tables, surrounded by approving spectators. It was a scene from a somewhat decadent medievalist romance, and I was amused.

My smile faded a bit when I saw Mirella at a table almost directly below the observation window. She leaned against a large slab-chested man, peeling a pale gold pear with a silver knife. She still wore the loose white shirt, but she was otherwise naked, her breechcloth tossed carelessly aside. The implications of this came slowly to me, and for some illogical reason I felt a sense of loss. Her legs were long, smooth, and powerful-looking -- very beautiful. Her expression seemed less intense now, her lips were glossy with pear juice.

I turned away, to see Odorini looking down at his child. His old face, full of wistful affection, was very sad.

"Was Mirella made here?" I asked.

"Oh no," he said. "Not in the way you mean. Only divers and their indentured servants are allowed within the Hall."

I looked about at the avid-faced tourists, who were making rude remarks and pointing. "They don't mind being watched?"

He shrugged. "Do you mind your spectators? Many more watch you as you go about your travels. And peer forth from your eyes, feel with your heart. . .a more intimate sort of voyeurism than this," he said, waving at the tourists above, the revellers below.

"It's not the same," I said. "My experiences are carefully edited. My purposes are different."