"Baker, Kage - Facts Relating To The Arrest Of Dr. Kalugin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Baker Kage)

"Some scenes, yes." I smiled. "Tippi Hedrin is first attacked in that harbor. Are you a cinema enthusiast?"
"Well, sure! And, boy, do things look different there now!" He giggled slightly, I suppose aware of the banality of his remark, and swung his bag down from his shoulder. "Well, I guess I'd better give you that access code."
From a narrow compartment he drew out an envelope, neatly addressed to me in Russian using Roman letters. "It's in there." He handed it to me.
"Wonderful." I tore the envelope open and peered inside. Wrapped in a thin sheet of notepaper was the filmy strip of code. I closed it up again carefully and tucked it deep in my pocket.
"And the lady said to tell you -- " his voice and face abruptly altered and I was hearing a woman's voice, speaking smooth Cinema Standard with just the faintest steel of Old Spain: "This study was compiled in 1722 and while I don't _think_ any of the species described here have gone extinct since then, he should check with the local Indians. However, I'm quite sure he'll find it comprehensive enough for his needs."
His face resumed its normal appearance and I applauded. "How marvelous! Is that a special subroutine for couriers?"
He looked confused. "_I'm_ the Courier," he said.
"Yes, but -- " There was an awkward pause while I tried to fathom what he meant, during which I became aware that a few of the settlers had come out of their huts and were staring at us. The Courier lifted his bag again, shifting from foot to foot.
"Anyway. There's your letter. What are my orders?" he asked me.
"Orders?" I stared at him. "I have no orders for you."
His face went perfectly blank, a greater transformation than the moment previous; no more expression than a wax mannequin.
"You haven't got any orders for me?" he repeated wonderingly. ""But you have to. Where am I supposed to go next?"
"I don't know, Mr. -- er, dear me, you haven't told me your name -- "
"Courier," he informed me. Strange; but our etiquette, as you know, frowns on remarking upon a fellow cyborg's personal appellation, so I blundered on:
"Courier. My dear sir, I'm afraid I haven't received any transmissions from Base since I've been here. Clearly there's been some mistake. I'm sure they'll send your orders any day now."
"But what am I supposed to _do_?" His knuckles whitened on the handle of his bag.
"Well -- " I looked around uncomfortably. I could understand if he were irritated, but his flat incomprehension baffled me. "Perhaps you'd like to visit the colony here?"
Instantly his face cleared. "Okay!" he said cheerfully. I glanced over at the little crowd of Indians and frontiersmen beginning to gather by the stockade.
"We need to address the question of your cover identity, however. Your choice of clothing is a little unusual for a Russian," I explained delicately. "Are you programmed to speak our language, at all?"
"Sure!" he affirmed. In a flat Kievan accent he inquired: "'Say, Comrade, what time does the boat leave? Where can I catch the diligence for Moscow? Is this the road to the Volga ferry?'"
"Very well ... er ... we'll say you're my late aunt's lawyer's clerk, and you've come all this way to deliver this important letter with news of her demise. You've also brought papers I must review and sign concerning her estate, so I've asked you to be my guest for a day or so."
"Got it." He made a circle with his index finger and thumb. "I'm a clerk. So, let's go! Show me around the place."
He surveyed the view in evident enjoyment as we crossed the headland toward the stockade. Everything pleased him: our villainous-looking Aleuts scraping a sea lion skin, the windmill turning on its low eminence, a field of pumpkins blazing red like harvest moons amid withering vines. "Hey, neat!" He elbowed me, pointing at them. "I guess in a couple of days you'll have some swell jack o'lanterns, huh?"
"If these people had ever heard of Halloween, certainly," I replied. "You must remember, Courier, this is Russian America. _And _1831."
"Oh." He looked momentarily confused. "Sure it is. Sorry, I forgot." He glanced down into the cove, where the stream flowed into the sea. "Gosh! What's that down there? Say, is that a shipyard?" He ran to the edge of the bluff to look. "I don't see any ships. Just some kayaks."
"Bidarkas," I corrected him. "We used to build ships. They fell apart. And our wheat gets Wheat Rust due to the winter fogs, and our Aleut hunters have nothing much to do because the sea otters they were brought here to hunt had unfortunately been hunted nearly to extinction by the time this settlement was founded." I shrugged apologetically. "We don't seem to be able to accomplish much here."
"I guess not." He gazed around. "But it's so _beautiful_."
I felt a glow of friendship toward him. "Exactly, Courier! Look about you. No one is hungry here, because we do manage to raise enough to feed ourselves. Everyone is working together in peace, regardless of race. The climate is mild. Could you ask for a better description of Paradise? If only we weren't supposed to be making a profit!"
But he wasn't listening to me. He was hastening ahead to look at the cemetery.
"I have to see Everything," he shouted over his shoulder.
He was quite serious. He wanted to have the colony explained to him, from the gopher holes and plough-scored rocks to the flag atop the mast in the stockade. Then he wanted to meet everyone. Everyone, I say: he even reached through the bars in the jail to shake hands with poor little Fedor Svinin, the ex-clerk who had embezzled ten years' worth of salary to cover his gambling debts. "You don't say? Poor old guy!" He would have pumped hands with equal enthusiasm with Kostromitinov, the General Manager, had Piotr Stepanovich not been visiting our farm at the river. That was all right: he shook hands with all the local Kashayas he could find, who stared at him in mute incomprehension; he shook hands with every one of our Aleuts, who smiled politely and then wiped their hands on their sealskin shirts. Courier didn't notice; he didn't hold still long enough, leaping away to exclaim over some new feature of the settlement he'd just noticed. Everyone, everything enchanted him.
And really it was delightful, if a bit exhausting, to accompany someone who took such intense pleasure in the smallest details of mundane life. One saw through his eyes and the great trees looked bigger, the Indians more mysterious, the coastline more wild and romantic.
Though I must say I seem to have been the only one who enjoyed his company; Babin had already been talking to the other Russians about my mysterious visitor, and the ones who weren't superstitious drew their own smirking conclusions about this effusive pretty boy. So much for my ever earning their respect.
Courier even approached Babin with his hand out, crying "Pleased to meet you, sir, my name's Courier," before Babin stepped back indignantly.
"By the Black Goat hisself!" he spat. "As if I'd want to touch the likes of him, after the way he cut up on the _Polifem_!"
Courier lowered his hand, looking hurt and bewildered, as Babin turned and stamped off. "What's wrong with _him_?" he asked me.
"He, er, formed rather a poor opinion of you, I'm afraid. Apparently. When you were fellow passengers on the _Polifem,_" I explained. "There seems to have been some unfortunate incident -- ?"
"There was?" Courier stared after Babin. "Oh. I guess I didn't recognize him, huh?"
No amount of hinting could prompt him to tell me just what had happened on board the _Polifem, _but I thought perhaps he needed a little more briefing on Russian customs before he'd fit in at the officers' table; so when time came for the evening meal I arranged for two plates of venison stew and we carried them to one of the rooms kept ready for visitors. Courier took his tin dish and clambered onto his bunk with it, settling his back against the wall. He sighed in contentment.
"Look at this! This is real frontier living. Look at these bare timber walls. Look at that old oil lamp -- it's burning seal blubber, isn't it? And this is a real wool trade blanket I'll be sleeping under tonight! Gosh. What an experience." He spooned up a mouthful of stew and chewed ecstatically. "Mm-mm! So this is venison, huh? Kind of like beef, isn't it?"
"You mean you've never tasted venison before?" I stopped eating in surprise.
"Not that I know of." He swallowed and washed it down with a big gulp of kvass. "Golly, that's good! Never had that before, either."
"Now that I can believe." I smiled. "I take it, then, you've been primarily posted to cities during your career?"
"Well, sure." He put another spoonful in his mouth.
"Where have you been?"
"Oh, here and there. You know." He waved his spoon vaguely. It occurred to me that he might not be at liberty to reveal previous assignments, and therefore it would be good manners to refrain from further questions. I gave an impromptu talk on Russian manners and mores during the rest of our meal, occasionally interrupted as he noticed yet more picturesque things to exult about, like the tin reflector behind the lamp or the framed print of the Tsar.
When we had dined I took our tableware and made to leave him for the night, but a sudden anxious look came into his eyes and he stopped me.
"My orders," he said. "Have you got them?"
"Why -- no," I told him. "Here. Wait, I'll see if any transmissions have come in yet, shall I? Though I haven't heard the signal -- " I put down the dishes and took out my credenza. "No ... no, not a word. See? I'm sorry."
"But why haven't they sent my orders?" He fidgeted.