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

I was very uncomfortable with this conversation; my prospects for making a successful travelogue, at least in the customary mode, seemed to be fading. To some extent, all tourist destinations are falsifications, but tourists don't like to be reminded of this fact. "You make it sound trivial."

"No, no. I don't mean to." His sharp old face grew dark and sad. "There's nothing trivial about the divers. And they are the heart of the matter; all our prosperity springs from them and the drug. Our industry is based on fear, and fear is never trivial."

As he spoke, he led me into a side corridor, where a residential level began. Here were large open areas carved from the limestone and occupied by a surprising crowd.

We walked slowly, as Odorini dispensed a running commentary.

Two naked men fought with iron gloves in a sunken arena. They circled cautiously, parried each other's blows in a shower of yellow sparks. "Gladiators from the Dilvermoon blood stadia. They come here to learn to control their fear," Odorini said. "They start with a trace of the drug and increase the dosage until the fear is manageable. Trainable. In the same vein, we minister to the devotees of other dangerous sports, to soldiers, to doctors, to artists."

"Artists?"

Odorini gave me a faintly malicious smile. "Artists, yes. They're the most numerous group among the dwellers below. Are not all good. artists familiar with fear and its destructive effects?"

And indeed the next open space was some sort of atelier, where men and women worked at various crafts. Potters sweated over wheels, painters stood at easels, glass-blowers squinted into the glare of the furnaces. A woman at a huge clattering loom threw her shuttle back and forth with manic intensity, and cursed in a low fierce voice.

"You deny this?" Odorini asked.

I shrugged.

His smile grew less amiable. "Consider. What would an artist not fear? So many things to fear: critics, poverty, drudgery, and boredom. And the greatest fear of all. . . that one is untalented and therefore wasting one's life in a futile pursuit. I would think that every artist, no matter how successful, suffers from this fear at times, except for those with truly monstrous and crippling egos."

"I guess so," I said in a hollow voice, feeling attacked.

He glanced at me with a suddenly compassionate expression. "I had supposed that you came here to deal with some fear of your own. Was I incorrect?"

"I don't know," I said. "I didn't think so, when I planned this trip."

"Ah," he said, with no trace of skepticism. "It's as well, Michael. You know, there are very few similarities between lack of fear, and courage."

We passed a room of hard-faced men and women, jerking and straining at the straps of emotigogue chairs, eyes rolled back into their heads.

"Soldiers," Odorini said. "They relive old battles, to learn what they might have done, with less fear."

Next was a room of dancers, then a room of singers in audio isolation booths, then a room of graveled jockeys in simulators. I stopped looking; the thought of all that fear was making me dizzy and a little ill.

Odorini seemed to sense my discomfort. "Come; we'll see something rarely seen by tourists." He led me through a steel pressure door, marked Essential Personnel Only.

We walked along an artificial corridor. At several junctures, gates closed off the corridor. At each we were asked for identification, by guards wearing the uniform of a Dilvermoon security agency.

At the last gate we were both searched, thoroughly and impersonally. At first the guards demanded that I remove my recorders, but Odorini produced a document granting me special permission.

"He's no spy," said Odorini jovially to the guards. "Believe me, he doesn't know what to look for." I felt vaguely insulted.

"We still have a few secrets," Odorini said. "The synthetic drag is, according to connoisseurs, inferior to our product, though some say this is sheer mysticism. Also our process is cheaper, once we have the fish. On Dilvermoon they must use sub-molecular assemblers of great sophistication, Very costly."

"What do you use?"

Odorini rolled his eyes wildly, falling back into his role as infernal guide. "The toenails of executed felons. Essence of black pearl. The milk of virgins."