"Gardner,.James.Alan.-.Expendable" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gardner James Alan)

My quarters contained no ornamentation, but hidden in a closed metal locker was
my collection. Most Explorers had collections. We were paid well, and had few
vices that could absorb our salaries.
I collected eggs. Many people found that amusing: Festina Ramos collected eggs.
They pictured a cabin filled with white hens' eggs, racks of them, bins of them,
heaped hodgepodge wherever I had space. Not one of them ever saw my collection.
They laughed behind my back about something I would never show them.
In my early days on the ship, I talked about my collection one day at the lunch
table. I forget how the subject came up. I was just so glad to find myself in a
conversation that wasn't shop-talk, I ignored my usual caution.
Of course the others laughed ... and wanting them to understand, I tried to
explain how beautiful some eggs can be. Every color of the rainbow, pale blues
and soft oranges and golden yellows. All sizes, all shapes. Some with shells as
fragile as tissue paper, some so hard you can squeeze with all your might and
not harm them. Insect eggs, small and black like pepper. Amphibian eggs, chains
of jellied eyes suspended in water. Eggs from extraterrestrial life-forms,
unique as snowflakes, perfumed, cylindrical, clear as glass, red-hot to the
touch....
The other crew members didn't understand. Most of them didn't try. One or two
put on intelligent expressions and said, "That's interesting." They were the
ones who most made me feel like a fool.
After that, I never discussed my collection in public. I didn't try to describe
it, because I knew I couldn't. I refused to show it to the crew because I would
only be infuriated by their politely unappreciative attention. Why should I
watch them feign interest?
Eggs are self-contained worlds, perfect and internally sufficient. On every
planet that supports life, there are eggs. Whatever alien paths life may take,
there are always eggs somewhere along the trail. My fellow Explorers found this
time and time again.
If I heard an Explorer's report state that eggs had been found on this or that
planet, I transmitted a personal request asking for a specimen. I almost always
got what I wanted- Explorers help each other.
When I received an egg, I spent several days deciding how to display it. Some I
mounted on wooden stands; some I set in china dishes; some I swathed in cotton.
Receiving a new egg was cause for celebration. I took it out of its packing case
and cradled it in my hands, cherishing its fragility or its toughness or its
warmth. Sometimes I could hold an egg for a full hour, dreaming I was in touch
with the mother who laid the egg or the child who called it home.
But all the eggs in my collection were sterile. They never hatched. Some were
never fertilized. The others had been irradiated by the Admiralty to kill
whatever was inside them-transport of alien organisms is dangerous.
On nights when I couldn't sleep, I sat amidst them and listened to their
silence.


The Call