"Mike Resnick - Hothouse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

little ropey.

I'm sorry to hear it.

It happens. She pauses. How was the rest of your day?

We had some excitement, I reply.

Oh?

Mr. Spinoza died again.

That's the fourth time, isn't it? she asks.

The fifth, I correct her. The Resurrection Team revived him.

The Resuscitation Team, she corrects me.

You have your word for them, I have mine, I say. Mine's better. Resurrection
is what they do.

So you've only lost one this week, says Felicia, if not changing the subject
at least moving on a tangent away from it.

Right. Mr. Lazlo. He was 193 years old.

193, she muses, and then shrugs. I guess he was entitled.

You mentioned that you lost one too, I note.

Mycymbidium.

That's an orchid, right? I say. The one they nicknamed Peter Pan?

She nods.

Silly name for an orchid, I remark.

It stayed young forever, or so it seemed, she replies. It had the most
exquisite blooms. I'm really going to miss it. I'd had it for almost 20 years.
She smiles sadly, and a single tear begins to roll down her cheek. I worked so
hard over it, sometimes I felt like its mother. She looks at me. That sounds
ludicrous, doesn't it?

Not at all, I say, sincerely touched by her grief.

It's all right, she says. Then she stares at my face. Don't be so concerned.
It was just a flower.

It's called empathy, I answer, and she lets it drop...but Iam troubled, and by