"Foster, Alan Dean - He" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

He

By Alan Dean Foster





He came out of the abyss and out of the eons, and He didn't belong. His kind had passed from the world long ago, and it was better thus for the world, for They were of all Nature's creations the most terrible.
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He
But still He survived, last of His kind, a relic of the time when They had ruled most of this world. He was old, now, terribly old, but with His kind it showed little. He'd stayed to Himself, haunting the hidden kingdom of darkness and pressure. But now, again, something impelled Him upward, something inside the superb engine of Himself drove Him toward the light, something neither He nor anyone could understand.
Two men died. The reason was basic.
The rain had worked itself out and the sun was shining by the time Poplar reached the station. The building was as unspectacular as the simple sign set into the white stucco.
UNITED STATES
OCEANOGRAPHIC
RESEARCH STATION
DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR
AMERICAN SAMOA
He pushed through a series of doors and checkpoints, occasionally pausing to chat with friends and coworkers. As station director, it was his obligation as well as a pleasure.
The door to his own offices was hah* ajar. Long ago he'd lost the habit of stopping to admire the gold letters set into the cloudy glass.
DR. WOODRUTH L, POPLAR DIRECTOR
He paused in front of Elaine's desk. She'd arrived some six months ago, the first crimp in a routine otherwise unbroken for the past five yeafs-His first reactions had been confused. He still was. She swiveled around from her pile of books to face him.
In her mid-twenties, Elaine Shai had tiny, delicate features that would keep her looking childlike into her forties and fifties. Long auburn hair fell loosely in
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back, framing small blue eyes, a tiny gash of a mouth, and a, dimpled chin. In contrast, her unnervingly spectacular figure was enveloped in print jeans and a badly outflanked white blouse. She had a fresh yellow frangi-pani behind one ear. She looked great.
The elfin illusion was blurred only when she opened her mouth. Her accent was pure Brooklyn. It had disconcerted Poplar only once, when he'd greeted her on her arrival at the airport. From that point, for all it mattered, she could have chattered away in Twi. But she bothered him. "Well, what are you staring at, Tree?" "You must be using a new shampoo," he said easily. "Your follicles are in bloom."
She grinned, touched the flower lightly. "Pretty, isn't it? He's in your office. I got tired of him staring at the door. Strange old bird. Never took his hands off that package. But you know these small-island Matai better than I do, Doctor. Stuffy." "Proud, you mean."
She popped her bubblegum at him. That was her one disgusting habit. He pushed open the door to his
office.
As always, his first glance was reserved for the magnificent view of the harbor out his back window. He was always afraid he'd come in one day and find a view of downtown New York, the one from his old office at Columbia. Reassured, he turned to greet the man seated in front of his desk.
Standing in front of his chair, he managed to take a fast inventory of the papers and envelopes padding his desk while at the same time extending a greeting hand.
"Talofa," he said.
"Hello, Dr. Poplar. My name is Ha'apu." The oldster's grip was firm and tight. He sat down when Poplar did.
The director stared at the man across from him. On second and third glance, maybe he wasn't so old. That Gauguinish face, weather-beaten and sunburnt, could
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have as well seen forty summers as seventy. The few lines running in it were like sculpture in a well-decorated home, placed here and there strategically, for character, to please the eye. The hair was cut short and freckled with white.
The Matai retained a taut, blocky build. Ropes of stringy muscle flexed when his arms shifted. He matched Poplar's 175 cms. in height.
"I've come a distance to see you, Dr. Poplar."
"You sure have, all by yourself, if what they tell me is true. I'm flattered." He changed to his best fatherly-executive style, which was pretty sad. "How are things on Tafahi?"
The old chief shook his head slowly. "Not good. Since He came."
"I'm sorry to hear that," replied Poplar in what he hoped was a convincing display of sincerity. Privately he didn't give much of a damn about daily life on Tafahi. "Uh ... who is 'He'?"
"I have heard over the television that you are a Doctor to the Sea. Is this true?"
Poplar smiled condescendingly. "I can't cure storms or improve fishing, if that's what you mean." Educational television had performed miracles in reaching and teaching the widely scattered Polynesian and Mel-anesian peoples throughout the Pacific.
It was Ha'apu's turn to smile. "I still think we may be better at that than you." He turned somber again. "By Sea-Doctor, I mean that it is your business, your life, to study what the ocean is, what lives in it, and why Tangaroa does the things he does."
"That's a very astute summation," replied the director. He felt the sea-god himself would have approved, and his estimation of this man's intelligence went up a notch.
Ha'apu seemed satisfied. "So I believed. I wanted to make certain I understood. My mind takes longer to think things than it once did. What I have brought to show you . . ." he indicated the small package in his
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