"Tricia Sullivan - The Question Eaters" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sullivan Tricia)

"Bowl water," said the crone.
The boy looked at the floor and said,
"spillthrowdrinkforgetgivepissitflyseecoverunmake--"
"Bowlwater," she interrupted. The boy glared at her.
"Spill throw drink--"
"What comfort?" This was the first time John had heard its voice: the
third. Reluctantly John turned his eyes to the mats on the floor. "What
hope?" It was a cool, deep, male voice, eminently reasonable in tone. John
shivered, dry-skinned in the heat. He could not bear to look at this one.
His insides twisted. He felt if it spoke to him, he would have to obey.
"Give," said the boy grudgingly.
"Bowlwater."
He gave it to her.
Sentient Baby has command power over others, John noted tersely.
Subjective horror, observer.
Sentient Baby? Again he wondered at his own notes. He looked at #3 to see
if the description fit. It looked back. John cringed. He couldn't help it.
"Why?" said Baby, to him.
It makes no sense that I can understand them. I shouldn't be able to. What
language am I hearing?
The crone took the bowl and set it in front of her. She held up her hands,
palms facing each other a few inches apart.
Sentient Baby speaks only in questions, John remembered to note. He felt
dizzy, and noted that. The tent was almost dark. Outside the sand seemed
to be glowing a dark, dead green.

Trying to translate the sandwriting into something he could comprehend had
been the greatest challenge of John's career. He had gotten in the habit
of standing on the sand outside the research dome waiting for the signs to
appear, and then trying to interact by stenciling in his own responses to
the language in the sand. This was how he had learned to translate it.
"There's no such thing as 'translation,' really," he'd explained to
Elaine. "We actually translate ourselves into the other language." And
that was what he had been doing. But his progress was slow, and he could
not share it with anyone because he had no objective information to
impart. So he had tried to develop a structure. In the course of doing
this he noticed contradictions of meaning. He had struggled with the fact
that the sign for "womb" seemed to be the same as the sign used for
"desert."
He remembered thinking that it was ironic to associate fertility with the
sterile desert. He'd copied the womb/desert sign in the sand and spent a
long time thinking about it, wondering how--or if--the sandwriters had
reproduced.
To his astonishment, the sandwriting that came up the next morning
stretched in a long line across the desert, leading away from the domed
station. He had never had a clearer invitation. He arranged for a survival
kit, but first he had to clear his exit from the dome with Elaine, who he
knew blamed some factor in the atmosphere for the outbreak of madness.
Because of this, he had always been surprised that she had even