"Exile From Space" - читать интересную книгу автора (Merril Judith)

Exile From SpaceExile From Space

I don't know where they got the car. We made three or four stops before the last
one, and they must have picked it up one of those times. Anyhow, they got it,
but they had to make a license plate, because it had the wrong kind on it.
They made me some clothes, too Ч a skirt and blouse and shoes that looked just
like the ones we saw on television. They couldn't make me a lipstick or any of
those things, because there was no way to figure out just what the chemical
composition was. And they decided I'd be as well off without any driver's
license or automobile registration as I would be with papers that weren't
exactly perfect, so they didn't bother about making those either.
They were worried about what to do with my hair, and even thought about cutting
it short, so it would look more like the women on television, but that was one
time I was way ahead of them. I'd seen more shows than anyone else, of course Ч
I watched them almost every minute, from the time they told me I was going Ч and
there was one where I'd seen a way to make braids and put them around the top of
your head. It wasn't very comfortable, but I practiced at it until it looked
pretty good.
They made me a purse, too. It didn't have anything in it except the diamonds,
but the women we saw always seemed to carry them, and they thought it might be a
sort of superstition or ritual necessity, and that we'd better not take a chance
on violating anything like that.
They made me spend a lot of time practicing with the car, because without a
license, I couldn't take a chance on getting into any trouble. I must have put
in the better part of an hour starting and stopping and backing that thing, and
turning it around, and weaving through trees and rocks, before they were
satisfied.
Then, all of a sudden, there was nothing left to do except go. They made me
repeat everything one more time, about selling the diamonds, and how to register
at the hotel, and what to do if I got into trouble, and how to get in touch with
them when I wanted to come back. Then they said good-bye, and made me promise
not to stay too long, and said they'd keep in touch the best they could. And
then I got in the car, and drove down the hill into town.
I knew they didn't want to let me go. They were worried, maybe even a little
afraid I wouldn't want to come back, but mostly worried that I might say
something I shouldn't, or run into some difficulties they hadn't anticipated.
And outside of that, they knew they were going to miss me. Yet they'd made up
their minds to it; they planned it this way, and they felt it was the right
thing to do, and certainly they'd put an awful lot of thought and effort and
preparation into it.
If it hadn't been for that, I might have turned back at the last minute. Maybe
they were worried; but I was petrified. Only of course, I wanted to go, really.
I couldn't help being curious, and it never occurred to me then that I might
miss them. It was the first time I'd ever been out on my own, and they'd
promised me, for years and years, as far back as I could remember, that some day
I'd go back, like this, by myself. But ...
Going back, when you've been away long enough, is not so much a homecoming as a
dream deja vu. And for me, at least, the dream was not entirely a happy one.
Everything I saw or heard or touched had a sense of haunting familiarity, and
yet of wrongness, too Ч almost a nightmare feeling of the oppressively