"Garrett Randall - Lauralyn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Randall Garrett)

Lauralyn
Randall Garrett
Again, last night, I saw the ghost of Lauralyn.

Again, I tried to trap her, to go beyond her capabilities, and, again, I could not. And that is beginning to
frighten me.

She has never come without warning; such a breach of manners would be beyond Lauralyn. Never less
than sixty days apart, and never more than one hundred eightyтАФwhich may be the parameters of the
random pattern I believe she has chosenтАФmy commweb terminal signals at some time when I am not
working, and her lovely voice comes without vision, as though she were calling from a ship in space, and
she asks if she may visit next day.

Of course, I cannot say no.

And she always comes to Garden Four, where we first met.

To paraphrase some ancient of distant legendary Earth, I cannot live with her, and I cannot live without
her. And yet, I am doing both and neither. She is an itch in my soul.

But there is a question that gnaws at my mind more painfully than she at my soul: Who is Lauralyn?

I am making this crystal record, partly to see that it goes permanently into the files of the Brotherhood,
partly to verbalize it in order to clarify things in my own mind.


The soft, sweet sound signal lifted me from the depths of my meditation, and I rapidly took the steps
necessary to lift me to full awareness. The time was 1104. I rose from my relaxer, a little puzzled; the
signal had come six minutes early.

"Why the hurry, Brother Ambrose?" I asked.

"The technician from Galactic Machines is here. Father Superior," said the voice from Brother Ambrose's
speaker.

"I see." I was mildly surprised; the Galaxy is vast, and even ultralight velocities are not fast enough for
really quick travel. I had not expected the GM technie for another fifteen months. "Very well, Brother
Ambrose," I said, "where is the technie waiting?"

"Garden Four, Father Superior." I took a quick trip through the cleanser and left my quarters, heading for
Garden Four.

Garden Four is not designed for business or technical discussion; it is solely for relaxation and pleasant
conversation. There are shrubs and trees and flowers from thirty-seven worlds, with the great oaks
predominating, looming over the flickering neon bushes and the pale lavender-barked egg trees. The turf
underfoot is mutated Terran bluegrass, and the softly tinkling chime vines are pure Glavian. The frosted
mirror-moon overhead bathed the garden in softly colored silver, and the air was just perceptibly
perfumed by the bracing tang of aroma from the poon blossoms.

There is beauty there, but at that moment it was dominated by a greater beauty.