"John Norman - Gor 01- Tarnsman of Gor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norman John)

an illusion.
Obviously, I was breathing, and that meant necessarily an atmosphere containing a large
percentage of oxygen. It must be the earth. But as I stood at the window, I knew that this could
not be my mother planet. The building in which I found myself was apparently one of an indefinite
number of towers, like endless flat cylinders of varying sizes and colors, joined by narrow,
colorful bridges that arched lightly between them.
I could not lean far enough outside the window to see the ground. In the distance I could
see hills covered with some type of green vegetation, but I could not determine whether or not it
was grass. Wondering at my predicament, I turned back to the table. I strode over to it and nearly
bruised my thigh on the stone structure. I felt for a moment as though I must have stumbled, have
been dizzy. I walked around the room. I leaped to the top of the table almost as I would have
climbed a stair in the alumni house. It was different, a different movement. Less gravity. It had
to be. The planet, then, was smaller than our earth, and, given the apparent size of the sun,
perhaps somewhat closer to it.
My clothes had been changed. My hunting boots were gone, my fur cap and the heavy coat and
the rest of it. I was clad in some sort of tunic of a reddish color, which was tied at the waist
with a yellow cord. It occurred to me that I was clean, in spite of my adventures, my panic-
stricken rout in the mountains. I had been washed. I saw that the ring of red metal, with the
crest of a "C," had been placed on the second finger of my right hand. I was hungry. I tried to
put my thoughts together, sitting on the table, but there was too much. I felt like a child,
knowing nothing, taken to some complex factory or store, unable to sort out his impressions,
unable to comprehend the new and strange things that flash incessantly upon him.

There was a tapestry to the right, a well-woven depiction of some hunting scene, I took
it, but fancifully done, the spear-carrying hunters mounted on birds of a sort and attacking an
ugly animal that reminded me of a boar, except that it appeared to be too large, out of proportion
to the hunters. Its jaws carried four tusks, curved like scimitars. It reminded me, with the
vegetation and background and the classic serenity of the faces, of a Renaissance tapestry I had
once seen on a vacation tour I had taken to Florence in my second year at the University.
Opposite the tapestry-for decoration, I assumed --hung a round shield with crossed spears
behind it. The shield was rather like the old Greek shields on some of the red-figured vases in
the London Museum. The design on the shield was unintelligible to me. I could not be sure that it
was supposed to mean anything. It might have been an alphabetic monogram or perhaps a mere delight
to the artist. Above the shield was suspended a helmet, again reminiscent of a Greek helmet,
perhaps of the Homeric period. It had a somewhat "Y"-shaped slot for the eyes, nose, and mouth in
.the nearly solid metal. There was a savage dignity about it, with the shield and spears, all of
them stable on the wall, as if ready, like the famous colonial rifle over the fireplace, for
instant use; they were all polished and gleamed dully in the half light.
Aside from these things and two stone blocks, perhaps chairs, and a mat on one side, the
room was bare; the walls and ceiling and floor were smooth as marble, and a classic white. I could
see no door in the room. I rose from the stone table; which was indeed what it was, and went to
the window. I looked out and saw the sun our sun it had to be. It seemed perhaps a fraction
larger, but it was difficult to be sure. I was confident that it was our own brilliant yellow
star. The sky, like that of
A panel in the wall slid sideways, and a tall red-haired man, somewhere in his late forties,
dressed much as I was, stepped through. I hadn't known. what to expect, what these people would be
like. This man was an earthman, apparently. He smiled at me and came forward, placing his hands on
my shoulders and looking into my eyes. He said, I thought rather proudly, "You are my son, Tarl
Cabot."