"Jack C. Haldeman II & Jack Dann - High Steel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Jack C)

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Reference: USCC Directive 27AI-Indigenous People Act.
Print locations: Remote 2, Local 7. Key: SOC 1877335-NN-OO
The old man walked beside John Stranger, staring down at the rocky trail. It was not a time to talk.
His face was leather, as wrinkled as the earth. His lips were chapped and parched, as if they had never
touched water. Years beyond counting had marked him, molded him. Now he was ageless, timeless.
The stark landscape stretched out below them: muddy columns carved by wind, deep ravines, vertical
dikes, fluted ridges. It was desolate country. But it was their country. The way down would be difficult,
but Broken-finger could climb almost as well as John. He often boasted that the Great Spirit would not
make him weak and sick before taking him "south"тАФthe direction of death. He had always been strong.
He was an Indian, not a wasicun, not a white man. He would take his strength with him to the
outer-world of the dead.
Broken-finger was a medicine man. Since John Stranger had been a child, the old man had taught
him, trained him. That would all change.
They climbed down a sharp basalt cliff face, carefully searching out toeholds and handholds. Their
progress was slow, the sun baked them unmercifully. But they were used to it; it was part of their lives.
When they reached a rocky shelf about halfway down the cliff face, they paused to rest.
"Here," Broken-finger said, handing John a thermos of bitter water. "We can wait while you regain
your strength."
John felt dizzy again. Had it really been four days since he had climbed alone into the vision pit? Time
had blurred, scattered like sand before the wind.
"You had a good vision," Broken-finger said. It was not a question, but a statement. He knew. It
required no answer.
John blinked, focused his eyes. The spirit-veils were fluttering before him, shaking up the yellow grass
and rocks and hills below like rising heat. He could see his village in the distance, nestled between an
expansive rise and the gently rounded hills beyond. It had been his home since birth. Seventeen years had
passed. It seemed like more.
The village was comprised of fifty silvery hutches set in a great circle, in the Indian way. Broken-finger
used to say that a square could not have much power. But a circle is a natural power; it is the design of
the world and the universe. The square is the house and riser of the wasicun, the squared-off,
divided-up, vertical white man.
"Everyone down there is waiting for you," Broken-finger said, as if reading John's thoughts. "A good
sweat lodge has been prepared to sear your lungs and lighten your heart. Then there will be a
celebration."
"Why a celebration?" John asked as he watched a spotted eagle soaring in circles against the sharp
blue sky. It was brother to the eagle in his vision. Perhaps the spirit-man was watching.
"The village is making you a good-time because you must make a difficult decision. Pray your vision
will help you."
"What has happened?" John stoppered the thermos, passed it back to the old man.
"We received news from the wasicun corporation yesterday." He paused, saddened, and stared
straight ahead. "They claim their rights on you."
 John Stranger felt a chill crawl down his back. He stood up and walked to the edge of the shelf; there
he raised his hands and offered a prayer. He looked for the spotted eagle and, as if in a vision, imagined
that it was flying away from him like an arrow through the clouds.
"We must go now," he said to Broken-finger, but he felt afraid and alone, as if he were back in the
vision pit. He felt hollowed-out inside, as isolated as a city-dweller. They climbed down toward the
village together; but John was alone, with the afterimages of his vision and the dark smoke of his thoughts
and fears.
Below him, the village caught the sun and seemed to be bathed in light.