"Gwyneth Jones - Red Sonja and Lessingham in Dreamland" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones Gwyneth)

"Ah!" smiled Dr. Hamilton, waving a finger at her. "Naughty, naughtyтАФ"
He was the one who'd started taunting her, with his hints that the meatтАФ"Lessingham"тАФmight be
near. She hated herself for asking a genuine question. It was her rule to give him no entry to her real
thoughts. But Dr. Jim knew everything, without being told: every change in her brain chemistry, every
effect on her body: sweaty palms, racing heart, damp underwear. . . . The telltales on his damned autocue
left her precious little dignity. Why do I subject myself to this? she wondered, disgusted. But in the
virtuality she forgot utterly about Dr. Jim. She didn't care who was watching. She had her brazen-hilted
sword. She had the piercing intensity of dusk on the high plains, the snowlight on the mountains; the hard,
warm silk of her own perfect limbs. She felt a brief complicity with "Lessingham." She had a conviction
that Dr. Jim didn't play favorites. He despised all his patients equally. . . . You get your kicks, doctor.
But we have the freedom of dreamland.


"Sonja" read cards stuck in phone booths and store windows, in the tired little streets outside the building
that housed the clinic. Relaxing massage by clean-shaven young man in Luxurious Surroundings . .
. You can't expect your fantasies to mesh exactly, the doctor said. But how can it work if two people
disagree over something so vital as the difference between control and surrender? Her estranged husband
used to say: "why don't you just do it for me, as a favor. It wouldn't hurt. Like making someone a cup of
coffee ..." Offer the steaming cup, turn around and lift my skirts, pull down my underwear. I'm
ready. He opens his pants and slides it in, while his thumb is round in front rubbing me. ... I could
enjoy that, thought "Sonja," remembering the blithe abandon of her dreams. That's the damned shame.
If there were no nonsex consequences, I don't know that there's any limit to what I could enjoy. . .
. But all her husband had achieved was to make her feel she never wanted to make anyone, man,
woman, or child, a cup of coffee ever again. ... In luxurious surroundings. That's what I want. Sex
without engagement, pleasure without consequences. It's got to be possible.
She gazed at the cards, feeling uneasily that she'd have to give up this habit. She used to glance at
them sidelong, now she'd pause and linger. She was getting desperate. She was lucky there was
medically supervised virtuality sex to be had. She would be helpless prey in the wild world of the nets,
and she'd never, ever risk trying one of these meat-numbers. And she had no intention of returning to her
husband. Let him make his own coffee. She wouldn't call that getting well. She turned, and caught the eye
of a nicely dressed young woman standing next to her. They walked away quickly in opposite directions.
Everybody's having the same dreams . . .


In the foothills of the mountains, the world became green and sweet. They followed the course of a little
river, that sometimes plunged far below their path, tumbling in white flurries in a narrow gorge; and
sometimes ran beside them, racing smooth and clear over colored pebbles. Flowers clustered on the
banks, birds darted in the thickets of wild rose and honeysuckle. They led their riding animals and walked
at ease: not speaking much. Sometimes the warrior woman's flank would brush the man's side: or he
would lean for a moment, as if by chance, his hand on her shoulder. Then they would move deliberately
apart, but they would smile at each other. Soon. Not yet. . .
They must be vigilant. The approaches to fortunate Zimiamvia were guarded. They could not expect
to reach the pass unopposed. And the nights were haunted still. They made camp at a flat bend of the
river, where the crags of the defile drew away, and they could see far up and down their valley. To the
north, peaks of diamond and indigo reared above them. Their fire of aromatic wood burned brightly, as
the white stars began to blossom.
"No one knows about the long-term effects," she said. "It can't be safe. At the least, we're risking
irreversible addiction, they warn you about that. I don't want to spend the rest of my life as a cyberspace
couch potato."
"Nobody claims it's safe. If it was safe, it wouldn't be so intense."