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

entertained his speculations about the sandwriting at all. She seemed to
expend most of her energy trying to restrict people from any contact with
the planet's environment. He was amazed when she agreed to give him
clearance to leave the dome for an extended period.
"It could be quite dangerous, John," Elaine had said. "And I don't want to
advise you to go. You already spent too much time outside. However... it's
so critical that we find out what's causing our people these behavioral
aberrations. Hydrophobia, hearing voices, violence. Maybe if you go, we
can learn something."
John didn't really trust her--she was a psychiatrist, after all, and kept
trying to get into his head--but he hadn't had time to work out her
motives for letting him go. He had a trail to follow.
The sandwriting had teased him along for miles across the plain before it
stopped altogether. He had tried to translate it even as he followed; but
it traveled too fast and he couldn't keep up with its meaning. Sandwriting
appeared swiftly and decayed even faster. The slightest wind could obscure
the markings. When finally the trail stopped, he found himself far from
the dome with no clue as to what to expect. So he waited, and he watched.
He didn't want to go back to the station without accomplishing something
concrete, something he could show to Elaine and say, "Here, this is
science."
He ought to be laughing about that aspiration by now. Here he was,
surrounded by shadow-creatures he had no way to document; witnessing his
own mind bend to their will. A dedicated professional to the last.
The crone was moving her hands back and forth, as if she were rubbing
something that couldn't be seen. John was fascinated, despite himself. His
fingers had begun encoding his thoughts automatically, without his
conscious effort.
Desertwomb make. Waterweave death within go climb clutch stick die.
"What is desert?" said Sentient Baby. Or had it said, "womb"?
Observer linguistic orientation collapsing. Sentient Baby eats my
questions before they are born. Womb. Desert.
There was moisture on the crone's hands. Her hands dripped and shone with
it.
Stay me move observer! Out, out to completion mother dust hand me hold.
Three makes one make none. Sucking inward, until stop it, John. Stop.
Observer experiencing alien contact shock. Judge psycho-physiological
condition unsafe. Dispatching distress call.
His fingers tapped out the transmission. They would come for him. They
would have to come for him. He made himself picture the domed station in
his mind like a buoy, the sandblown glass and the pointed towers. Please.
The crone's hands were twisting and rolling now, slick and dark with
slime, but John couldn't see what she was holding. There was a fierce,
sickening smell in the tent.
Unpeople unspeak unliving ghost.
John saw the boy go to the bowl and put his face against the water. To
drink, to drink... John almost swooned with desire. He wanted to know if--
"Do you believe you are one being?" Sentient Baby asked.
The question eaters are absorbing my mind. The sentient baby devours. See
its crumbling fangs. Here it comes. Birthright.