"Larry Niven - Crashlander (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Niven Larry)

He stepped forward and took my hand in both of his, despite lack of encouragement, and pumped it
and hung on. He bellowed over the crowd noise. "Ander Smittarasheed. We made two travelogue vids
together. Beowulf, all I can say is you must have a hell of a tale to tell."

He had no doubts: he knew me. I said, "Hide. Hell of a tale to hide, Ander."

"Not anymore."

I shouted, "Yeah. Right. Are you with anyone?"

"No, on my own."

"Come watch the game with me. I think there's an empty seat next to mine." There'd better be.

He was still staring. Whatever he'd known, whatever had brought him here, he hadn't expected
what he was seeing.

I hugged that thought to me. He was seeing me for the first time in twelve years. I dared to
hope that Ander hadn't prepared for this meeting. There was no backup. Just him.

As we passed the booths, his hand closed on my upper arm. He might not think it likely that I'd
dive into a transfer booth and vanish, but he wasn't risking it. He shouted, "Why a phone booth to
use a pocket phone?"

And I showed myself astonished at his stupidity and bellowed, "Noise!"

Then the crowd roar drowned out any hope of conversation, we moved onto the slidebridge, and I
had a few moments to think.

***

There's only one spaceport on We Made It, and the ships don't land every day. Some of us kids
used to watch them take off and land. I'm the only one who became a pilot.

What I noticed about the tourists was muscle.

I wasn't undermuscled for a local. Some of the tourists hailed from worlds no more massive than
mine, but we got Jinxians and flatlanders, too. They walked like they expected us to shy away from
their moving mass. We tall, narrow, fragile crashlander men and women did as they expected, and
resented it a little.

Nakamura Lines ran their ships at one Earth gravity. I had to train hard just to walk around on
my own ship. Thus trained, I was a superbly muscled athlete by We Made It standards. It was still
true that too many passengers looked at my albino pallor and tall, skeletal frame and saw a sickly
ghoul.

I'd gotten used to that. Maybe it had left me touchy.

Visceral memory had come flooding back when Ander's hand closed on my arm like a predator's
jaws. I hadn't known Ander well. I'd seen him twice in fourteen years, for periods of intense