"Paxson, Diana L - The Dancer of Chimaera" - читать интересную книгу автора (Paxson Diana L)

"It's getting late ..." Mendos, who was on his third drink already, shook his head. "Don't worry, maybe he's backstage with her now...." Both men laughed, and Duprey ordered a drink. "That's right, Duprey-drink up! You can afford to, now the Shield's up!" Duprey grunted and picked up the bulb, glaring at a technician who had started to take the empty chair.

The manager got up to make his announcement, and the noise level sank to its usual dull roar. The synthetor warbled out the introductory theme. There was a shadow behind the screen.

"Well, here's Mariposa-" said Mendos. "Musta been in a hurry-no color on her face. Wonder if she's got her costume on." He snickered happily.

Mariposa stepped over to the musicians, her robe flowing around her. As she spoke to them, the music faded and for a moment, the drumbeat faltered. The manager glared, but in a few beats they had recovered, and the drum boomed, commanding all eyes to the stage. The synthetor sang out a series "of high notes, monotonous and pure. The drum pounded again and Mariposa whirled, cloak flaring around her like a red nebula. Then, with a flash, it was off.

Mariposa danced.

Her pale body was washed by the changing lights. Her eyes glittered. Her slender feet stamped out an echo to the rhythm of the drum.

"What's come over the girl? Never saw her move that way-" Mendos blinked as if he were having trouble focusing.

Mariposa swayed with the music, her movements sending adrenaline sparking through the bodies of those who watched her, the flutter of her fingers compelling their attention. She circled in front of the musicians; the synthetor faded and she began to sing.

"I am the sweet surge of the tide... I can release the love inside-" was what Duprey heard, and his bulb rolled unheeded from his hand. "Follow me, follow, out from the shallows, into the depths of the sea ..."

Mendos leaned forward, clutching at the edge of the bar.

"I am the scent that stirs the night, I offer measureless delights! Follow me, follow, all here is hollow, and in me ecstasy!"

The drum beat faster now. Mariposa leaped down from the stage and moved among the men. Each one felt the touch of her fingers on his heart, heard her singing to him alone, and they circled her like new-formed planets around a sun. "Sima ..." breathed Duprey, stumbling toward her. "No-it's Honey, my own Honey-lookit those bulbs, just like I told you!" Mendos cried. Mariposa drifted toward the door, singing. She sang the men out into the street and toward the main pedway. The synthetor whispered to silence, but the drummer slipped the strap over his head and continued to play, and his beat pulsed through the artificial air. Mariposa's singing rode that pulse to echo from the walls of the buildings and reflect from the ceiling of the Dome. The Station was not very large. It was not long before the strange procession had circled it, and wherever it passed, men came to their doors, and when they had opened, they saw Mariposa dance, and heard her sing, and when they had seen and heard, they followed her. They came at last to the door that led Outside. "I am your dream and your desire... I am the burning of love's fire... Follow me, follow, out of the window, and we shall be free! I feed your hunger, I bring you home- No more to wander, no more to roam ... Follow me, follow, into tomorrow, oh, follow me..." It took a few moments for the man who knew how to work the handles to make his way through the crowd to the door, and a little longer for another, who had set the pattern of switches that would make them release, to reach the controls. But Mariposa sang. She danced need for her into their blood, she sang her image into their brains. She was golden-haired with breasts like Perelan honey melons ... she was doll-slim, veiled by silken black hair ... or tall and redheaded ... dark-skinned with eyes like coals ... petite . .. luscious ... every man's desire. The door swung open, and one by one they went through. Their eyes focused on the dancer before them; they heard her song. They pursued her even as they fell on the burning sand Outside, clutching at throats that choked on the air that was only a little wrong for men. They embraced her image as they died.

The little window in Mariposa's room grew bright as day rose on Chimaera once more. It gilded that scattered clothing and the ruined bed, and illuminated the face of the man who lay there, still set in the smile of one who had been possessed by his desire.

Mariposa quietly closed the door and walked back through the empty ways until she reached Station Control. She passed through its corridors, ignoring the banks of machines with their futilely flashing lights, until she came at last to the one machine that mattered and touched its controls to impotence. Then she moved onward to the viewroom where she could see the Shifter ships drifting silently down.

They called her Mariposa, and she had danced for the men of Chimaera, but she was not a woman . . . she was not a woman at all.



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About Diana L. Paxson and "The Dancer of Chimaera"

Diana and I go back a long way, too; back to when Diana was an as-yet-little-published writer of a few short stories. She had written a story I liked tremendously; and I told her that if I got a chance to do a non-Darkover anthology, I'd take it right away. Later that year, Don Wollheim gave me a chance to edit Greyhaven, and the first thing I did was to call Diana and ask her if the story had sold yet. It was still available-what were my fellow editors thinking of?-and it was the first story I bought. My faith in Diana has been justified-all of her work since then has been superb. After half a dozen or so of the Westria novels, she began making a name for herself with historicals; the splendid White Raven gave a new look at the Tris-tram-and-Yseult story, and she has just published a new look at the Siegfried and Brunhilde legend. She collaborated with me on my book The Forest House, though the publishers thought it would sell better with my name alone. At this writing it is out in England, but not here till April 1994. We have already contracted for a big historical sequel. This story is probably the nearest to science fiction ever to appear in the pages of my magazine; to me it has a flavor of a story by C. L. Moore, and hence I couldn't resist it. Nor can I resist the temptation to share it with you.