"Anderson, Poul - Fire Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anderson Poul)

"But, sir," Saleh persisted, "I don't get it. Sure, Valennen sees a lot more of the Wicked Star, a lot higher in the sky, than Beronnen does. I understand how it gets hotter than here. Only why'll the country dry out that bad? I thought, ng-ng, I thought heat draws water out of the sea and dumps it as rain. Isn't that how come the tropical islands are mostly wet?"

"True," Larreka answered. "That's what's going to spill rain all over Beronnen for the next sixty-four years or more, till we're in mud up to our tail-roots when we aren't Hooded out-not to speak of snowpack melting in the highlands and whooping down, to add to the fun and games- But Valennen's saddled with those enormous mountains along the whole west coast, where the main winds come from. What little water the interior's got will blow away eastward over the Sea of Ehur, while clouds off the Argent Ocean crash on the Worldwall. Now shut your meat hatch and let's tramp."

They sensed that he meant it and obeyed- For some reason he recalled a remark which Goddard Hanshaw had once made to him:

''You Ishtarians seem to have such a natural-born discipline that you don't need any spit-and-polish-hell, your organized units like in the army hardly seem to need any drill. Only, is 'discipline' the right word? I think it's more a, well, a sensitivity to nuances, an ability to grasp what a whole group is doing and be an intelligent part of it.... Okay, I reckon we humans catch on faster to certain ideas than you do, concepts involving three-dimensional space, for instance. But you've got more, uh, a higher social IQ." He had grinned. "A theory unpopular on Earth. Intellectuals hate to admit that beings who have wars and taboos and the rest can be further evolved than their own noble selves, who obviously have none."

Larreka remembered the words in the English which had been used. Fascinated by humans since their first arrival, he had seen as much of them as he could manage and learned everything about them and from them that he was able. This was rather more than he let on to his followers or his brotlier officers; it wouldn't have fitted his character as a rough, tough old mudfoot. Language had been no problem to a fellow who'd knocked around half the globe and always quickly found how to ask local people for directions, help, food, beer, housing, sex, whatever he wanted. Besides, English was very narrow in range and choice of sounds. Humans could never match the voice or hearing of even a male Ishtarian. He admired them for plowing their way through Sehalan anyhow.

When they were so pitifully short-lived, too. A single sixty-four or less, and they needed special medicines to keep their strength. Before the end of the second sixtyfour, that was no help either.. .. Larreka unconsciously quickened his pace a bit. He wanted to enjoy his friends while he had them.

More urgent was his errand among them. He carried evil news.

Primavera was houses and other buildings along asphalt streets shaded by the red and yellow foliage of big old native trees which had been left in place when the area was originally cleared, their soil tended to keep them alive amidst alien growth. It rose in gentle slopes from a landing on the Jayin where boats docked and vessels of Ishtarian river traffic paid calls; the inhabitants manufactured a few articles like rotproof fabrics to trade for many of their needs. They built largely in native materials, wood, stone, brick-though the glass they made was superior to anything of Beronnen-and added light bright paint. A road ran east, vanishing over a ridge, eventually to reach the spacefield, A kilometer outside of town it passed by the airport, where flyers were kept for long-range transportation. Around home people used groundcars, cycles and feet.

Ishtarians were too common in Primavera to draw special attention unless they were individually wellknown. Larreka only was to long-term residents. And not many persons were outdoors at this hour, when adults were at work and children in school. He had reached Stubbs Park, was about to short-cut through it and grab a drink of water at the fountain in the middle, before he was hailed.

First, he heard the purr of a large flywheeler at high speed, followed by a squeal of braking. To drive like that in town would have been unforgivably reckless in most, but not quite all. He wasn't surprised to recognize Jill Conway's throaty shout.

"Larreka! Old Sugar Uncle himself! Hi there!" She unsnapped her safety harness, sprang from the saddle and out between the roll bars, left the vehicle balanced while she hurled herself into his arms.

At length, "M-m-m," she murmured, stood back, cocked her head, and surveyed him centimeter by centimeter. "You're looking good. Worked some fat off, have you? But why the deuce didn't you let me know you were coming? I'd've baked a cake."

"Maybe that was why," he teased in her English.

"Aw, switch it off, will you? The trouble with a lifespan like yours is you develop no sense of time- My culinary disasters didn't happen yesterday, they were twenty years ago. I'm a grown lady now, people keep wistfully telling me, and you'll be surprised how well I cook. I must admit, you never did anything more heroic than eat those things a little girl made for her Sugar Uncle."

They smiled at each other, a gesture common to both species though human lips curved rather than quirked upward. Larreka returned her searching gaze. They'd swapped radiograms and sometimes talked directly by phone, but hadn't met in the flesh for seven years, since the Zera Victrix went to Valennen. He'd been kept busy by worsening natural conditions and the rise of banditry to take leave, while she'd first been studying hard, then embarking on her own career. When little was yet known about the ecology of Beronnen and the Iren Archipelago to the south, he couldn't blame her for choosing to do research in their congenial environments. In fact, he would have been distressed had she decided to investigate the greater mysteries of Valennen. That continent wasn't safe any longer, and Jill was among his loves.

She'd changed. In a hundred years of close acquaintance with humans, close friendships with several, Larreka had learned to tell them apart as well as they could themselves, person by person or year by year- He had left her a lanky, late-maturing adolescent who had scarcely outgrown a tomboyishness which, no doubt, he had helped foster. Today she was indeed adult.

Clad in the usual blouse and slacks of townsfolk, she stood tall, long-legged, barely on the feminine side of leanness. Her head was long too, the face rather narrow though bearing a wide full mouth, nose classically straight, eyes cobalt blue and heavy-lashed under level brows. Sunlight had browned and slightly freckled a fair skin. Dark-blond and straight, her hair fell to her shoulders, controlled by a silver-and-leather filigree band he had given her. She had stuck a bronzy saru feather in the back of it.

"You're ready to be bred, all right," Larreka agreed. "When and who to?"

He hadn't expected she would flush and mumble, "Not yet," then immediately ask: "How's the family? Did Meroa come along?"

"Yes. I left her at the ranch."

"Shucks, why?" she challenged. "You've got a far nicer wife than you deserve, for your information."

"Don't tell her." His pleasure faded. "This is no furlough for me. I'm bound on to Sehala for an assembly, afterward back to Valennen as soon as may be; and Meroa will stay behind."

Jill stood quite still for a space before she responded low: "Are things getting that bad there?"

"Worse."

"Oh." Another pause. "Why didn't you tell us?"