"L Ron Hubbard - Mission Earth 03 - The Enemy Within" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hubbard L. Ron)

recognized it as a cura irizva, a long-necked sort of lute with three strings and frets.
"O Master," she whispered, and I could barely hear her, "with your permission and at your
command, I will sing."
I waved my hand in a lordly fashion. "Sing!" I commanded.
She flinched and I realized I had spoken too loudly.
Her eyes were downcast. She tuned the cura irizva. Then she began to play without singing.
BEAUTIFUL! Traditional Turkish music is very oriental and it ends on indefinite upbeats and
usually I don't like it. But such was the dexterity of her hands and so expert her rendition that
the whole place seemed transported into a dream world. What an accomplished musician!
The last chord died away. I was afraid to applaud. She was now looking at me so shyly under
her eyebrows that I was sure she thought she had been too bold.
Then she whispered, "There are no recording devices in this place, are there?"
It startled me. And then I realized why she was asking. The primitive Turks have a
superstition that if you record their voices, they will lose them. It proved beyond doubt she was
just a Kara Rum desert wanderer, a wild thing.
I said, "No, no. Of course not."
But she got up, her movements poetry itself, and went around the room looking behind things
just to be sure. She came back and sat down. She picked up her cura irizva. "I did not feel bold
enough to sing," she whispered, "but I will sing now."
She struck several chords and then she sang:

She rose like the moon into heaven's embrace.


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She opened her mouth of the dew to taste.
And then came the sun!
She retreated in haste!
All scorched with the rays of your burning!

I was entranced! Her voice was low and husky, sensuous, insinuating! Her accent was Turkmen
Turkish, identifiable even though Turkish, spoken all across Russia, varies hardly at all. Her
voice had a thrilling effect upon me. It set my pulse surging.
To my disappointment, she put the cura irizva aside. With bowed head and downcast eyes, she
whispered, "O
Master, with your permission and at your command, I will dance."
"Dance!" I permitted and commanded eagerly.
Again I had spoken too loud. She cowered. But then, presently, she took up the tambourine.
This was unusual. Turkish dancers usually use finger castanets. But it was a Turkish drum.
She rose so sinuously and effortlessly that I scarcely realized she had stood.
I thought for a moment she was just standing there. And then I saw the muscles of that bare
stomach!
In the flame light, her belly was moving and writhing without another single motion to her
body. A real belly dancer!
The jacket covered her breasts. The pantaloons covered her thighs. But the nakedness in
between was alive!
Then, in time to the moving muscles, she began to tap the drum. She tapped it harder and her
legs began to sway. Harder and her whole body began to sway. Her stomach muscles bunched and