"James Patrick Kelly - Think Like a Dinosaur (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

father came from Thana, near Bombay, and her favorite flavor of chewyfrute was
watermelon and she'd had five lovers and when she was eleven she had wanted to
be a gymnast but instead she had become a biomaterials engineer who at age
twenty-nine had volunteered to go to the stars to learn how to grow artificial
eyes. It took her two years to go through migrator training; she knew could
have backed out at any time, right up until the moment Silloin translated her
into a superluminal signal. It was explained to her many times what it meant
to balance the equation.
I first met her on June 22, 2069. She shuttled over from Lunex's L1
port and came through our airlock at promptly 10:15, a small, roundish woman
with black hair parted in the middle and drawn tight against her skull. They
had darkened her skin against epsilon Leo's UV; it was the deep blue-black of
twilight. She was wearing a striped clingy and velcro slippers to help her get
around for the short time she'd be navigating our .2 micrograv.
"Welcome to Tuulen Station." I smiled and offered my hand. "My name is
Michael." We shook. "I'm supposed to be a sapientologist but I also moonlight
as the local guide."
"Guide?" She nodded distractedly. "Okay." She peered past me, as if
expecting someone else.
"Oh, don't worry," I said, "the dinos are in their cages."
Her eyes got wide as she let her hand slip from mine. "You call the
Hanen dinos?"
"Why not?" I laughed. "They call us babies. The weeps, among other
things."
She shook her head in amazement. People who've never met a dino tended
to romanticize them: the wise and noble reptiles who had mastered superluminal
physics and introduced Earth to the wonders of galactic civilization. I doubt
Kamala had ever seen a dino play poker or gobble down a screaming rabbit. And
she had never argued with Linna, who still wasn't convinced that humans were
psychologically ready to go to the stars.
"Have you eaten?" I gestured down the corridor toward the reception
rooms.
"Yes ... I mean, no." She didn't move. "I am not hungry."
"Let me guess. You're too nervous to eat. You're too nervous to talk,
even. You wish I'd just shut up, pop you into the marble, and beam you out.
Let's just get this part the hell over with, eh?"
"I don't mind the conversation, actually."
"There you go. Well, Kamala, it is my solemn duty to advise you that
there are no peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Gend. And no chicken
vindaloo. What's my name again?"
"Michael?"
"See, you're not that nervous. Not one taco, or a single slice of
eggplant pizza. This is your last chance to eat like a human."
"Okay." She did not actually smile -- she was too busy being brave --
but a corner of her mouth twitched. "Actually, I would not mind a cup of tea."
"Now, tea they've got." She let me guide her toward reception room D;
her slippers snicked at the velcro carpet. "Of course, they brew it from lawn
clippings."
"The Gendians don't keep lawns. They live underground."
"Refresh my memory." I kept my hand on her shoulder; beneath the