"Keith Brooke - Solo" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brooke Keith)

The citizens of this place look but they see very little indeed.
It must be early in the evening, because otherwise these people in the
streets would be at home in their sleeping quarters.
I walk in the open, through crowds of hurrying pedestrians - pale-skinned,
thick tufts of hair on their heads and sometimes on their faces, all
wrapped up against the elements. Occasionally one bumps into me, glares at
me. When this happens I make a smile and perhaps only then they sense
something different about me. They look hard, taking in my hairless
features, my light jacket over thin, gangling limbs. Then they look away,
lower their heads, join the flow again.
I stop by a wide window, which reveals a cavernous, brightly lit room.
Some kind of public hall, I guess. Bright banners and signs hang from the
ceiling and row upon row of television monitors stare out into the
darkness. Some of these monitors show cars driving fast, spinning in the
mud, crowds of people watching. Others show a person with long, ugly hair
seated at a desk with a picture behind him. As I watch, the view cuts to a
still picture: a staring man in a collarless shirt. The man is bald and he
is trying to make himself smile, although it is something he has not quite
mastered.
I turn away. So they dare to show my picture in public. The scientists,
too, must be relying on the resemblance of our two races - I am sure they
would not have broadcast an appeal for a missing alien. I expect they
describe me as a criminal, perhaps a dangerous murderer.
I hope they do not shoot murderers in this town.

A brightly lit hall, built on three levels with a high, arched, glass
ceiling. Lined up on either flank, and above me on galleries, are more of
the smaller, glass-fronted halls. Trees grow from walled beds and a
fountain sprays high, the water falling back down into a perfectly
circular pool. People rush by, many clutching plastic bags. Others sit on
benches, watching the water or the rushing people. This might be some kind
of church, I decide. I pan slowly, recording it all.
A cathedral, perhaps.
It is good to be out of the cold wind and sleet, but now I notice that one
or two people are studying me more closely.
One of them catches my eye and I try to smile again. The person gasps,
then gathers up a child and hurries away.
Presumably they have seen my face on the monitors.
I find a bench. Its frame is chrome, its surface some kind of plastic. I
sit down and watch the fountain and the rushing people. I don't think they
will take long, somehow.

It was all very subdued. Soldiers in blue uniforms, then the familiar
soldiers in green.
They stood for a long time with their guns pointed at me as the crowds,
all around, dispersed. If they could understand my language I would have
told them not to worry, I would go with them in peace. But they could not,
so I let them point their silly guns and shout at anyone who came too
close.
One of the scientists arrived, eventually. At least, I had always assumed