"Mike Resnick - 43 Antarean Dynasties, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

Bedorian who decreed universal education for all Antareans."
"What did you have before that?"
"Our females were not allowed the privilege of literacy until Bedorian's reign."

"How did this guy finally die?" asks the man, who doesn't really care but is
unwilling to let the woman ask all the questions.
"Bedorian was assassinated by one of his followers," I reply.
"A male, no doubt," says the woman wryly.
"Before he died," I continue, "he united three warring states without fighting a
single battle, decreed that all Antareans should use a common language, and
outlawed the worship of _kreneks_."
"What are _kreneks_?"
"They are poisonous reptiles. They killed many worshippers in nameless, obscene
ceremonies before Bedorian IV came to power."
"Yeah?" says the child, alert again. "What were they like?"
"What is obscene to one being is simply boring to another," I say. "Terrans find
them dull." Which is not true, but I have no desire to watch the child snicker
as I describe the rituals.
"What a shame," says the woman, though her voice sounds relieved. "Still, you
certainly seem to know your history."
I want to answer that I just make up the stories. But I am afraid if I say it,
she will believe it.
"Where did you learn all this stuff?" she continues.
"To become a licensed guide," I reply, "an Antarean must undergo fourteen years
of study, and must also speak a minimum of four alien languages fluently. Terran
is always one of the four."
"That's some set of credentials," comments the man. "I made it through one year
of dental school and quit."
_And yet, it is you who are paying me._
"I'm surprised you don't work at one of the local universities," he continues.
"I did once." Which is true. But I have my family to feed -- and tourists' tips,
however small and grudgingly given, are still greater than my salary as a
teacher.
A _rapu_ -- an Antarean child -- insinuates his way between myself and my
clients. Scarcely more than an infant, he is dressed in rags, and his face is
smudged with dirt. There are open sores on the reticulated plates of his skin,
and his golden eyes water constantly. He begs plaintively for credits in his
native tongue. When there is no response, he extends his hand in what has become
a universal gesture that says: _You are rich. I am poor and hungry. Give me
money._
"Yours?" asks the man, frowning, as his wife takes half a dozen holos in quick
succession.
"No, he is not mine."
"What is he doing here?"
"He lives in the street," I answer, my compassion for the _rapu_ alternating
with my humilation at having to explain his presence and situation.
"He is asking for coins so that he and his mother will not go hungry tonight." I
look at the _rapu_ and think sadly: _Timing is everything. Once, long ago, we
strode across our world like gods. You would not have gone hungry in any of the
43 Dynasties.