"Mount Charity by Edgar Pangborn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nebula Award Stories 7)

westward and came upon the legions before Carthage. By your calendar, that was 146 B.C.

That night Lykos and Hanuman prowled outside the camps and heard the cursing, complaining, occasionally thoughtful talk of soldiers, chatter of camp-followers and slaves, grunt of dice-players, squeak of wheels, spitting, snorting, belching, whine of whips -night sounds not greatly different from what we heard again in 1346 at the siege of Calais. Not deeply different, old man, from night as we heard it in the summer of 1863 outside Vicksburg. If we had been present I think we would have heard the same blending of black mirth, innocent obscenities, patience, aimless despair and fatigue, in the trenches of Verdun, or before the fighting began at Monte Cassino. We would hear it, possibly more hysterical, wherever soldiers talk to each other in the poisonous war your government carries on so blindly and endlessly in Vietnam.

We try to understand it.

I flew above Carthage. We had grown rather sophisticated then about the human thing. I knew what would happen. We guessed the dominance of Rome was inevitable, if only because of that beefy Roman stubbornness, and this city was the enemy's heart. We had heard gossip and truth about bilious Cato in his eighties. The old hater was dead then-he hated the Greeks too-but his hate still sputtered where the legions could hear it. In six days Carthage was smoke. Before I sought cleaner air I heard the screaming, glimpsed the usual human entertainments. Yet it was said there was not much laughter among the Roman officers-and yes, if you're curious, it's probably true that Scipio Aemilianus did weep, for the record, at this product of his good generalship.

Sickened of men, above all sickened of their self-delusions, we wandered down into jungle Africa-our third long journey there -and watched again your groping human pattern in the life of savage tribes. Those were rough jungles, as some of them are today. Once Lykos '(he is coming to you now from the pines) fell into a pygmies' pit trap and we could not finish digging him out

before they came. I darted among them and tore at their faces until they fled, gibbering of witchcraft.

I can't recall you ever looked handsomer, Peregrine.

Let me tend that leg, Lykos!

I can walk on three, Doctor. Our wounds heal; our green blooded flesh has never taken any infection. But it's true we heal much more slowly than when we were young, the bullet does give me pain, and there at the joint I suppose it might interfere with the setting of the bone. However, sir-contact with our flesh

Oh, you don't believe that yourself, do you? After all your time on Earth, and no harm done? Let me at least extract the bullet, and splint it. It would be simple, for me.

But about contact-some caution, Doctor

After three thousand years and no harm done? Let me follow my own common sense. Besides, I'm--quite old. It makes no real difference. Rest here. III get what I need ....

He wouldn't call others with a telephone?

No, Lykos. I am sure. He's honest.

You have not made the request?

No, but I told him we came to make one.

Still time to retreat, Peregrine. We could let him think this surgery was what we came to ask.

Too timid, Lykos. We must make the request.

Something in his face-I think he has a cancer.

It's possible . . . Quiet. Do whatever he asks ....

Was that too much?

No, you're very quick and good. But Doctor, I do suggest avoiding contact with the green blood that's oozing where the bullet was. Let it drain. It clots quickly. Try not to touch it when you put on the splints.

This thing is a nasty little.22. What happened?

Some hunter. I was certain I was hidden but must have been careless. I ran off. I don't know what he thinks I was.

If he thinks. Splints now. This will be bad, you know ....