"Theodore Sturgeon - Slow Sculpture" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sturgeon Theodore)

Do they know that?
"How are you?"
Urgent, urgent.
"Thirsty."
Cold and a bite to it that aches the hinges of 'the jaws.
Grapefruit juice. Lying back on his arm while he holds
the glass in the other hand.
O/i, no, that's not . . .
"Thank you. Thanks very"
Try to sit up. The sheet--my clothes!
"Sorry about that," he said, the mind--reader-almost-
"Some things that have to be done just aren't consistent
with pantyhose and a minidress. All washed and dried
and ready for you, though--any time. Over there."
The brown wool and the pantyhose and the shoes, on
the chair.
He's respectful, standing back, putting the glass next
to an insulated carafe on the night table.
"What things?"
"Throwing up. Bedpans," he said candidly.
Protective with the sheet, which can hide bodies bat
Oh--not embarrassment.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Oh. I must have"
Shake head and he slides back and forth in the vision.
"You went into shock and then you just didn't come
out of it."
He hesitated. It was the first time she had ever seen
him hesitate over anything. She became for a moment an
almost-mindreader.
Should I tell her what's in my mind?
Sure, he should. And he did.
"You didn't want to come out of it."
"It's all gone out of my head."
"The pear tree, the electroscope. The injection, the
electrostatic response."
"No," she said, not knowing. Then, knowing: "No!"
"Hang on," he rapped and next thing she knew he was
by the bed, over her, his two hands hard on her cheeks.
"Don't slip off again. You can handle it. You can handle
it because it's all right now, do you understand that?



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You're all right."
"You told me I had cancer."
She sounded pouty, accusing.
He laughed at her, actually laughed.