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

Odorini spoke with mild contempt, or so I imagined. "Because you're making art? The divers make art of their lives, or so they believe." His smile settled into an ironic crook. "We all must cling to our illusions, not so? Or sink."

I returned my attention to the Hall of Tides. Somehow I'd lost track of my purpose in coming here, of my work. Somehow I'd become involved with Odorini's agenda. . .whatever that might turn out to be. It was unacceptable. Unacceptable.

A man in a long black robe and a tall red hat came into the Hall and banged a staff against the floor. "The tide wizard," Odorini said. "He notifies the celebrants that divers are due in the Well."

Immediately there was an exodus from the Hall; even the most energetically engaged couples separated. The divers in general revealed no irritation at this interruption, but Mirella was an exception. She pouted at the large man, who was already halfway to the portal at the HaWs far end.

"She is so young," Odorini said, almost whispering. Then, in a stronger voice: "Hurry! It's time."

In a crowd of eager offworlders, we made our way along another crooked passage to the Well of Rebirth.

The Well was a natural amphitheater perhaps 150 meters wide, now flooded by the tide to a depth of fifty meters. A series of ledges ringed the Well, the lowest thronged with divers, who had by now assembled. We tourists were permitted to watch from the highest ledge, several stories above the Well's surface

In the torchlight, the water in the Well was a murky indigo, boiling with random currents. I tried to imagine swimming in the black depths below. . .but even the thought made me feel a degree of panic.

"Watch, now," Odorini said.

The first diver burst the surface in a cloud of spray. He sank back and began to swim for the ledge. His maneuvering lights, a dozen metallic ovoids glowing blue-white, followed him like a school of obedient fish.

He pulled himself halfway from the water and lay gasping. No one helped him.

"He failed to kill," Odorini said by way of explanation.

After a minute, the unlucky diver got to his feet. He unstrapped his breathing apparatus, gathered his lights into a net bag, and staggered away.

Two more unsuccessful divers emerged, to be greeted by the same silent contempt, This struck me as a harsh custom and I said as much to Odorini.

"Yes, I think so too," he said. "But here is the rationale: divers who suffer their fellows' scorn too often will be forced to pursue the fish more recklessly, in which case they either kill successfully or die gloriously. Do you see the logic?"

I didn't have a reply. Below, the first successful diver appeared, clinging weakly to a line. She triggered an inflatable buoy attached to her breather harness, and then seemed to lose consciousness. Several of the waiting divers dove into the Well, and brought her and her line to the ledge. Many hands lifted her from the water, and heaved in her prize, a ripper not quite dead, making feeble attempts to shake loose the harpoon which impaled its flank.

The large man I had seen with Mirella tapped the fish's head with a stun stick and it went rigid. A half-dozen divers dragged it from the water, fastened a block-and-tackle to its tail, and hauled it up to hang from a nearby gallows, where its quivering soon ceased.

Another fish was landed, another failure was scorned. Then a diver rose into the Well with the corpse of a casualty. He cradled the body gently, held it up and spun in a slow circle, as if displaying the victim to all the watchers. The dead diver had been a woman with a hard handsome face, and when her diving hood was pulled away, long bright hair spilled into the water. When the others lifted the body gently to the ledge, the extent of the damage became clear. The fish had taken one leg to the hip, both arms to the elbow, and had opened the abdomen almost to the spine.

Apparently this was what the other tourists had come to see. They whispered and giggled beside me, and I felt a shudder of disgust work through me.

"Let's go," I said to Odorini. He made no answer, and when i turned to him, I saw that he was crying silently.

The Ripper Room was closed when we regained the surface, but Odorini took me to a back room, and from a dusty bottle poured us each a glass of red wine. We sat at a small round table, in an uneasy silence. I surreptitiously examined the scene through my forearm monitor, and cheated a bit to my left, so as to paint my face with a flattering shadow.

Finally I asked him, "What are you doing, Odorini? It's more than common helpfulness, isn't it?"

He smiled a wounded smile. "Ah, you've found me out. You're too acute a student of humanity."

"Don't mock me," I said. "This may be a joke to you, but it's my life."

"I'm not mocking," he said with irresistible sincerity. "Well, it's nothing very sinister. My daughter, Mirella. . .did you know she was once my life's light? Such a sweet little girl there never was before, will never be again. It seems just yesterday that she sat on my knee, telling me that she would be a diver when she grew up."