"Frank Herbert - Soul Catcher" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert Brian & Frank)

The clipped British accent never sounded right to him coming from a mouth with purple
lips. And her eyes bothered him. They were too big, as though stretched by the way her
glossy hair was pulled back into a bun. Her name wasn't really Parma. It began with Parma,
but it was much longer and ended with a strange clicking sound that David could not make.
He pulled the blankets below his chin, said: 'Did my father leave yet?'
'Before dawn, young sir. It is a long way to the capital of your nation.'
David frowned and waited for her to leave. Strange woman. His parents had brought her
back from New Delhi, where his father had been political adviser to the embassy.
In those years, David had stayed with Granny in San Francisco. He had been surrounded
by old people with snowy hair, diffident servants, and low, cool voices. It had been a drifting
time with diffused stimulations. 'Your grand-mother is napping. One would not want to
disturb her, would one?' It had worn on him the way dripping water wears a rock. His
memory of the period retained most strongly the whirlwind visits of his parents. They had
descended upon the insulated quiet of the house, breathless, laughing, tanned, and
romantic, arms loaded with exotic gifts.
But the chest-shaking joy of being with such people had always ended, leaving him with a
sense of frustration amidst the smells of dusty perfumes and tea and the black feeling that
he had been abandoned.
Mrs Parma checked the clothing laid out for him on the dresser. Knowing he wanted her
to leave, she delayed. Her body conveyed a stately swaying within the sari. Her fingernails
were bright pink.
She had shown him a map once with a town marked on it, the place where she had been
born. She had a brown photograph: mud-walled houses and leafless trees, a man all in
white standing beside a bicycle, a violin case under his arm. Her father.
Mrs Parma turned, looked at David with her startling eyes. She said: 'Your father asked
me to remind you when you awoke that the car will depart precisely on time. You have one
hour.'
She lowered her gaze, went to the door. The sari betrayed only a faint suggestion of
moving legs. The red lines in the fabric danced like sparks from a fire.
David wondered what she thought. Her slow, calm way revealed nothing he could
decipher. Was she laughing at him? Did she think going to camp was a foolishness? Did she
even have a geographical understanding of where he would go, the Olympic Mountains?
 He had a last glimpse of the bright fingernails as she went out, closed the door.
David bounced from bed, began dressing. When he came to the belt, he slipped the
sheathed knife onto it, cinched the buckle. The blade remained a heavy presence at his hip
while he brushed his teeth and combed his blond hair straight back. When he leaned close to
the mirror, he could see the knife's dark handle with the initials burned into it: DMM, David
Morgenstern Marshall.
Presently, he went down to breakfast.
Statement of Dr Tilman Earth, University of Washington Anthropology Department:
The word katsuk is very explicit in Hobuhet's native tongue. It means 'the center' or the
core from which all perception radiates. It's the center of the world or of the universe. It's
where an aware individual stands. There has never been any doubt in my mind that Charles
is aware. I can understand his assuming this pseudonym.
You've seen those papers he wrote. That one where he compares the Raven myth of his
people to the Genesis myth of Western civilization is very disturbing. He has perceived the
link between dream and reality -- how we seek to win a place in destiny through rebellion,
the evil forces we build up only to destroy, the Great Conquests and Great Causes to which
we cling long after they've been exposed as empty glitter. Here ... notice his simile for such
lost perceptions: