"Vonda N. McIntyre-The Mountains of Sunset, the Mountains of Dawn" - читать интересную книгу автора (McIntyre Vonda N)

turned to leave; behind her, the youth spoke so softly that she almost did not hear. "It's my choice. Must
you refuse me?"
She let the door close between them.
***


In the corridor, she passed others of her people, youths and adults made spindly by their existence on
the inner levels of the ship, where the gravity was low. Many greeted her with apparent deference, but
she believed she heard contempt. She ignored them. She had the right; she was the oldest of them all, the
only one alive who could remember their home.
Her meal had not yet revived her; the slightly curved floor seemed to rise in fact rather than in
appearance. The contempt she imagined in others grew in herself. It was past her time to die.
Ladders connected the levels of the ship, in wells not designed for flying. With difficulty, the old one let
herself down to the habitation's rim. She felt happier, despite the pain, when the centrifugal force
increased her weight.
The voyage had been exciting, before she grew old. She had not minded trading hunting grounds for
sailship cubicles: the universe lay waiting. She entered the ship young and eager, newly eldermated, newly
changed from youth to adult; loved, loving, sharing her people's dreams as they abandoned their small,
dull world.
The old one's compartment was on the lowest level, where the gravity was greatest. Slowly, painfully,
she sat cross-legged beside the window, unfolding her wings against the stiffness of her wing-fingers to
wrap the soft membranes around her body. Outside, the stars raced by, to the old one's failing sight a
multicolored, swirling blur, like mica flakes in sand.
The habitation spun, and the sails came into view. The huge reflective sheets billowed in the pressure
of the stellar winds, decelerating the ship and holding it against gravity as it approached the first new
world the old one's people would ever see.
***


She dreamed of her youth, of flying high enough to see the planet's curvature, of skimming through
high-altitude winds, gambling that no capricious current could overcome her and break her hollow bones.
Other youths fell in their games; they died, but few mourned: that was the way of things.
She dreamed of her dead eldermate, and reached for him, but his form was insubstantial and slipped
through her fingers.
Claws skittered against the door, waking her. Her dreams dissolved.
"Enter."
The door opened; against the dimness of her room light shadowed the one who stood there. The old
one's eyes adjusted slowly; she recognized the piebald youth. She felt that she should send the youth
away, but the vision of her eldermate lingered in her sight, and the words would not come.
"What dost thou wish?"
"To speak with you. To listen to you."
"If that's all."
"Of course it isn't. But if it's all you will allow, I will accept it."
The old one unwrapped her wings and sat slowly up. "I outlived my youngermate," she said.
"Wouldst thou have me disgust our people again?"
"They don't care. It isn't like that anymore. We've changed."
"I know... my children have forgotten our customs, and I have no right to criticize. Why should they
listen to a crippled parent who refuses to die?"
The youth heel-sat before her, silent for a moment. "I wish... "
 She stretched out her hand, extending the sharp claws. "Our people should never have left our home. I