"Foster, Alan Dean - Humanx 5 - Sentenced To Prism" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

was different. There evolution had proнceeded from a different beginning to
wildly different conнclusions.
It was that evolution which had broken his suit.
The bright sun continued to beat down on his unshaded form. While the
temperature outside his artificial epiderнmis remained pleasant, it was starting
its inexorable upward climb within. Evan desperately wanted a drink of water. He
tried to roll over. The permanently sealed servos refused to respond and he
stayed as he'd fallen, fiat on his back.
His left arm wouldn't move at all. The right groaned as he stretched for the
water. It was a radical break with procedure, but he thought he might cup some
water in his one operable hand instead of trying to draw fluid from the helmet
tap.
Assuming he could do this, though, how could he deliver the water to his mouth
through the suit's impenetrable visor? His right arm went limp and he gave it
up, exhausted by the attempt, just as he'd been exhausted by Prism ever since
he'd touched down on its glittering, disorienting surface.
It had all seemed so simple and straightforward back on Samstead. An
unparalleled opportunity for advanceнment within the company. There was no way
he could fail to carry out the assignment. He'd never failed before, had he? Not
Evan Orgell.
Methodical, brilliant, incisive, overpowering. Also impatient, overbearing, and
arrogant. All those descripнtions had been applied to him from the beginning of
his career by those who admired him as well as those who hated or simply envied
him. All were to varying degrees accurate. Failure was not a term which applied
to Evan Orgell.
Until now. Because his suit was broken and survival suits just didn't break.
Until now. It was something that did not happen.
As Prism shouldn't have happened.
He lay there on his back, trying to gather his remaining strength and regulate
his breathing while he considered what to try next. The first thing was to get
out of the direct glare of the sun. Using his right arm as a lever, he slipped
it beneath him and pushed. The servos whined, his body lifted, and he managed to
roll a couple of meters to his right, beneath the torus of a cascalarian. A tiny
triumph, a very minor achievement, but it made him feel a little better.
The cascalarian occupied the same ecological niche on Prism as a shade tree on
Earth or Samstead, but it was not properly a tree. It possessed neither leaves
nor chloroнphyll. The tripartite central trunk was three meters high. From there
stiff spines grew parallel to the ground. There supported a transparent glassy
torus which was filled, with a great variety of life, some of it motile, ail of
it part of the parent growth. It reminded Evan of an imploded Christmas tree.
Everything grew toward the central trunk and the cenнter of the torus. There was
no outward expansion. Competition for living space within the torus was fierce
and constant, yet all of it was part of the cascalarian's own closed system. The
various shapes were competing for food. Which was to say, for sunlight. Like the
majority of lifeforms on Prism, the cascalarian was a photovore.
The thin outer shell of the torus magnified the sunlight falling on it. Within
the protective magnifying shell the internal lifeforms were colored lapis blue
and aquamarine. Here and there a few patches of royal blue‑something twisted and
throve. There were also unhealthy‑looking patches of pink sponge, but they were
rare.