"Niven, Larry - Smut Talk" - читать интересную книгу автора (Niven Larry)

Smut Talk
by Larry Niven
The Draco Tavern isn't just a pub. It's how and where humanity interacts with at least 28 sapient species throughout the galaxy. Somewhere among these trillions of alien minds are the answers to all of the universal questions.
So it's worth the expense, but costs are high. Keeping supplies in hand grows more difficult every time a new species appears. And Siberian weather tears the Draco Tavern down as fast as we can rebuild it.
When a year passed without a Chirpsithra ship, we were glad for the respite. The tavern got some repairs. I got several months of vacation in Wyoming and Tahiti. Then that tremendous chirpsithra soap bubble drifted inward from near the Moon, and landers flowed down along the Earths magnetic lines to Mount Forel in Siberia.
For four days and nights the Draco Tavern was very busy.
On the fifth morning, way too early, 124 individuals of ten species boarded the landers and were gone.
The next day both Gail and Herman called in sick. I didn't get in until mid-afternoon, alone on duty and fighting a dull headache.
~~~~
We weren't crowded. The security programs had let the few customers in and powered up various life-support systems. All of them were gathered around one of our biggest tables. Eight individuals, five - make it four - species, including a woman. I'd never seen her before. She was dressed in a short-skirted Italian or American business suit. Late 20s. Olive Arabic features. Nose like a blade, eyes like a hawk. I thought she was trying to look professionally severe. She was stunning.
The average citizen, human or otherwise, never reaches the Draco Tavern. To get here this woman must have been approved by her own government, then by the current UN psychiatric programs, Free Siberia and several other political entities. She'd be some variety of biologist. It's the most common credential.
Old habit pulled my eyes away. The way I was feeling. I wasn't exactly on the make, and I didn't need to wonder what a human would eat, drink or breathe. Tee tee hatch nex ool, her Chirpsithra life-support code was the same as mine. My concern was with the aliens.
I recognized the contours of a lone Wahartht from news coverage. They're hexapods with six greatly exaggerated hands, from a world that must be all winds. They'd gone up Kilimanjaro in competition with an Olympic climbing team. Travelling Waharthts are supposed to be all male. This one had turned a high-back chair around and was clinging to it, looking quite comfortable. He was wearing a breather.
The three Folk had been living in the Kalabari, hunting with the natives. They looked lean and hungry. That was good. When they look like Cujo escaped from Belsen with his head on upside down, they're mean and ravenous and not good bar company.
Gray Mourners are new to Earth. They're spidery creatures, with narrow torsos and ten long limbs that require lots of room, and big heads that are mostly mouth. I'd at first taken them for two species; the sexual disparity is that great. Two males and a female; the little ones were males, if that protrusion was what I thought it was.
In this gathering of species all seemed to be getting along. You do have to watch that in my line of business.
As I stepped into the privacy bubble the woman was saying, "Men mate with anything "and then she sensed me there and turned, flushing.
"Welcome," I said, letting the translator program handle the details of formality. "Whatever you need for comfort, we may conceivably have it. Ask me Folk, I know your need."
One of the Folk (I'd hunted with these and still never learned to tell their gender) said, "Greetings, Rick. You will join us? We would drink bouillon or glacier water. We know you don't keep live prey."
I grinned and said, "Whatever you see may be a customer." I turned to the woman.
She said, "I'm Jehaneh Miller"
"I'm Rick Schumann. I run this place. Miller?"
"My mother was American." So was her accent. Briskly she continued, "We were talking about sex. I was saying that men make billions of sperm, women make scores of eggs. Men mate with anything, women are choosy." She spoke as if in challenge, but she was definitely blushing.
"I follow. There's more to be said on that topic. What are you drinking?"
"Screwdriver, light."
"Like hers," the Wahartht said. Miens rarely order alcoholic drinks twice, but some just have to try it.
The female Gray Mourner asked, "Did our supplies arrive?"
They had. I went back to the bar. Beef bouillon and glacier water for the Folk. Screwdrivers, light, for the woman and the
Wahartht, but first I checked my database to be sure a Wahartht could digest orange juice. I made one for myself, for the raspy throat.
The Gray Mourners were eating stuff I'd never seen until that afternoon, an orange mash that arrived frozen. Tang sherbet?
I assembled it all quickly. I wanted to hear what they were saying. A great many aliens had left Earth very suddenly, and I hoped for a hint as to why.
And, given the conversational bent, I might learn something about Jehaneh Miller.
As I set down the drinks the Wahartht was saying, "Our childbearers cannot leave their forests, cannot bear change of smells and shading and diet, nor free fall nor biorhythm upset. We can never possess much of our own planet, let alone others. The females send us forth and wait for us to bring back stories."
A Folk said, "You travellers are all male. Do you live without sex?"
The Wahartht jumped; he tapped his translator. "`Survive without impregnation activity?' Was that accurately your question?"
"Yes."
"Without scent and sonic cues, we never miss it."
Jehaneh nodded and said to me, "Most life-forms, the mating action is wired in." To the Wahartht, "Does that hold for sapient species too?"
The Wahartht said, "Impregnation is a reflex to us. Our minds almost do not participate. Away from our females, we take a tranquilizing biochemical to inhibit a sometimes-suicidal rage.
I said, "I'm not surprised."
"But what should I miss?"
A Gray Mourner male cried out, "To return from orgasmic joy and be still alive!"
The other male chimed in. "Yes, Wajee! It always feels like we're getting away with something." I grinned because I agreed, but he was saying, "We think this began our civilization. Species like ours, female eats male just after he takes his generative pellet."
I think I flinched. The woman Jehaneh didn't. She cogitated, then asked, "What if you shove a beefsteak in her mouth?"
They're not insects, I wanted to say. Aliens! But nobody took offense. All three Gray Mourners chittered in, I assumed, laughter.
Wajee said, "Easy to say! No male can think of such a thing when giving generative pellet. Like design and build a parachute while riding hurricane! But what if two males? One male have sex. The other male, he put turkey in Sfillirrath's mouth."
Jehaneh jumped. "A whole turkey?"
The female smiled widely. Yike! Her jaw hinges disjointed like a snake's. Sfillirrath was twice the mass of either male, and her smile could have engulfed my head and shoulders too. She said, "On Earth, a turkey or dog will serve. Taste wrong, even if feed spices to the animal, but size is right. Size of Wajee's head, or Shkatht's bead. See you the advantage? Can have sex twice with the same male! Get better with practice, yes, Shkatht?"
"Almost get it right," Shkatht said complacently. "Next time for sure."