"mayflies06" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Jr Kevin)

Mayflies
Chapter 6

Recovery

Ralph Kinney reached the Prescott Dunn Memorial (formerly 278-SW) Common Room first that thirteenth day of June, 3125. He looked around; except for a crew of painters in mauve jumpsuits, the corridor was empty. "CC," he said to the wall-unit by his head, "has Mae Metaclura arrived yet?"
"Not yet, Mr. Kinney. She's in 178 South, heading for the liftshaft."
"Thanks." She'd show up in two minutes, maybe less-not time enough to find a display screen, summon the archeology text he'd been perusing, and make any headway. He shrugged, and leaned against the wall, hands jammed into the deep pockets of his white pants.
It was difficult not to let his mind sniff freely-so many others bloomed within easy reach; so many thinkers scented the air that even barricaded he could smell them . . . two men in a Common Room cubicle, for example, talking, and their thoughts drifted like perfume from a rose garden:
-twenty years off our port bow, why'n hell for?
It's uninhabited, Kerry, prolly died, accident, something, Marie Celeste-
So what keeps it dogging us, huh?
Prolly it's our magfield, y'on? Musta pronged their automatic pilot or something, some fluke, freak accident, just happens our magfield keeps their ship going the same way.
Covered two light years. Vie, twenty years, harder'nhell to figure it's some kinda fluke, onto what I mean? Gotta be somebody in it, watching us, trying to figure out what we are. No accident.
C'mon, we signaled 'em, lights, radio, everything but a knock on the door, they wouldn't just ignore us.
Vic my friend, they are aliens, means don't think same way we do, huh?
Yeah but twenty years?
Spies are patient . . . 'r maybe operate some different kinda time scale, possible? Say they live five thousand years-
Kinney had to chuckle at that.
-what's twenty, huh? An afternoon . . .
"Ralph!"
To his right thumped Mac Metaclura, ending a kanga, hair scattered by the wind and the low g. She was forty-five, more than twice his apparent age, but their giggly laughter-and the subjects that elicited it-made her seem the younger.
She was sexy, too. Shorter than average at 175 cm., she carried only 63 kilograms, and they were distributed perfectly. Her nipples puckered the gauze of her powder-blue blouse; her large breasts jostled when she moved. The gravity in her region was % normal, and she didn't need a bra to hold them proud.
The blouse ended at her flat, tight waist; her navel rode two inches above the belt of her white shorts, like a setting sun over an horizon. The shorts must have been sprayed on, and thinly at that. They barely concealed her dark triangle.
She smiled, and patted down her black hair with both hands. He stood awkwardly. The tip of her tongue moistened her red lips. Winking, she said. "Well, say there, big fella-" and promptly giggled.
"Morning, Mac." He offered his cheek for the ritual peck.
"Well, don't just stand there, let's go in." Her right arm slipped under his; her left thumb put the charge on her bill.
"Sure." He let her pull him along the dark, narrow hallway of Dunn Memorial. Dozens of doors opened into three-by-three rooms, some with desks and chairs, others with tatami mats, others with beds. "Why we meeting here?"
"It's the only private place on the ship." She glanced into a cubicle, stopped, and said, "In here. Wish it weren't so hot. Let me just-" Since the room had no sensor-head, she had to turn the thermostat down to 18 degrees herself.
The wall-to-wall burgundy carpeting was thick, and kind to their sandaled feet. An abstract mural hallucinated to itself on three walls. Soft, indirect lighting glowed on the large bed, which could rise or fall into the desired gravity zone. At the moment, it lounged on the floor. She dropped to its edge. "Join me."
"Sure." The mattress yielded; they slid down the trough their weights had created and bumped thighs. "But why's privacy so important?" Her need for it confused him. In twenty years of observation, he'd noticed that nobody else emphasized it.
"It's Bob," she said slowly, unstrapping her sandals.
"Your fiance?"
"The same." She sighed, and wriggled her toes among the carpet's tufts. Glumness slackened her features. "He's jealous."
"Of me?"
"Yup."
"Why?"
"Because . . . he has Cap'n Cool show the tapes of me, y'on? Wants to see where I've been, what I've been doing, with whom . . . it's so-"
"Infuriating?" he offered.
"No, no . . . " She shook her head. "But I feel imprisoned. He doesn't want me to see you any more."
"How come?"
"Because . . . y'onto what he thinks."
"Does he beat you?"
"Bob?" Surprise stretched her oval face. "What for?"
"The jealousy."
"He doesn't get mad-that'd be silly-he just gets hurt . . . I hate to hurt him; he's such a nice guy . . . "
"Sounds a little strange to me."
"He's afraid."
"Of losing you?"
"Uh-huh. But . . . look, let's not talk about Bob-it makes me more depressed."