"Nancy Kress - The Price of Oranges" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kress Nancy)

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The Price of Oranges
by Nancy Kress
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Copyright (c)1992 Pulphouse Publishing Corporation
First appeared in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine in April 1989

Fictionwise Contemporary
Science Fiction


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"I'm worried about my granddaughter," Harry Kramer said, passing half
of his sandwich to Manny Feldman. Manny took it eagerly. The sandwich was
huge, thick slices of beef and horseradish between fresh slabs of crusty
bread. Pigeons watched the park bench hopefully.
"Jackie. The granddaughter who writes books," Manny said. Harry watched
to see that Manny ate. You couldn't trust Manny to eat enough; he stayed too
skinny. At least in Harry's opinion. Manny, Jackie -- the world, Harry
sometimes thought, had all grown too skinny when he somehow hadn't been
looking. Skimpy. Stretched feeling. Harry nodded to see horseradish spurt in a
satisfying stream down Manny's scraggly beard.
"Jackie. Yes," Harry said.
"So what's wrong with her? She's sick?" Manny eyed Harry's strudel,
cherry with real yeast bread. Harry passed it to him. "Harry, the whole thing?
I couldn't."
"Take it, take it, I don't want it. You should eat. No, she's not sick.
She's miserable." When Manny, his mouth full of strudel, didn't answer, Harry
put a hand on Manny's arm. _"Miserable."_
Manny swallowed hastily. "How do you know? You saw her this week?"
"No. Next Tuesday. She's bringing me a book by a friend of hers. I know
from this." He drew a magazine from an inner pocket of his coat. The coat was
thick tweed, almost new, with wooden buttons. On the cover of the glossy
magazine a woman smiled contemptuously. A woman with hollow, starved-looking
cheeks who obviously didn't get enough to eat either.
"That's not a book," Manny pointed out.
"So she writes stories, too. Listen to this, just listen. 'I stood in
my backyard, surrounded by the false bright toxin-fed green, and realized that
the earth was dead. What else could it be, since we humans swarmed upon it
like maggots on carrion, growing our hectic gleaming molds, leaving our slime