"Alan Dean Foster - Ye Who Would Sing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

listened to the wind moan and cry around him.

Moan? Cry? His head came up dizzily. There was something more than wind out there.A sharp, yes
definitely musical quaver that came from all about him. He stared into the trees, saw no one. The effort
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cost him another dizzy spell and he had to rest his eyes before trying again.

Nothing in the trees, no.But, something about the nearest trunk . . . and the one to its left . . . and
possibly the two near by on the other side.Something he should recognize. Too weak to raise a shielding
hand, he blinked moisture away and studied the closest bole throughslitted eyes.

Yes. The trunk appeared to be expanding and contracting ever so slightly, steadily. His attention shifted
to itsneighbors . Hints of movement were visible throughout the forest, movement unprompted by wind or
rain.

Chimer trees.Cheechimer trees.They had to be.

But there weren't supposed to be any wild chimers left onChee world, nor as many as four together
anywhere outside of the big agricultural research station.

Maybe there were even more than four. He found himself developing a feeling of excitement that almost
matched the pain.If he had stumbled on a chimer forest...

Neither imagination nor intellectualprowess wereCaitland's forte, but he was not an idiot. And even an
idiot knew about the chimers. The finding of one tree anymore was extraordinary, to locate four together,
incredible. That there might be more was overwhelming.

So, finally, was the pain. He passed out

The face that formed beforeCaitland's eyes was a woman's, but not the one he'd been soundlessly
dreaming of. The hair wasgray , not blond; the face lined, not smooth; skin wrinkled and coarse hi the
hollows instead of tear-polished; and the blouse was of red-plaid flannel instead of silk. Only the eyes
bore any resemblance to the dream, eyes even bluer than those of the teasing sleep-wraith.

An aroma redolent of fresh bread and steaming meats impinged on his smelling apparatus. It made his
mouth water so bad it hurt. At the same time a storm of memories came flooding back. He tried to sit up.

Something started playing a staccato tune on his ribs with a ball-peen hammer. Falling back, he clutched
at a point on his left side. Gentle but firm hands exerted pressure there. He allowed them to remove his
own, set them back at his sides.

The voice was strong but not deep. It shared more with those blueblue eyes than the parchment skin.
"I'm glad you're finally awake, young man. Though heaven knows you've no right to be. I'm afraid your
machine is a total loss."

She stood. A straight shape of average height, slim figure, eyes, and flowinggray hair down to her waist;