"James Tiptree Jr - Beyond the Dead Reef" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiptree James Jr)

Beyond the Dead Reef
by James Tiptree, Jr
My informant was, of course, spectacularly unreliable.

The only character reference I have for him comes from the intangible nuances of a small
restaurant-owner's remarks, and the only confirmation of his tale lies in the fact that an illiterate
fishing-guide appears to believe it. If I were to recount all the reasons why no sane mind should take it
seriously, we could never begin. So I will only report the fact that today I found myself shuddering with
terror when a perfectly innocent sheet of seaworn plastic came slithering over my snorkeling-reef, as
dozens have done for yearsтАФand get on with the story.

I met him one evening this December at the Cozumel Buzo, on my first annual supply trip. As usual, the
Buzo's outer rooms were jammed with tourist divers and their retinues and gear. That's standard. El
Buzo means, roughly, The Diving, and the Buzo is their place. Marcial's big sign in the window reads
"DIWERS UELCOME! BRING YR FISH WE COK WITH CAR. FIRST DRINK FREE!"

Until he went in for the "Divvers," Marcial's had been a small quiet place where certain delicacies like
stone-crab could be at least semi-legally obtained. Now he did a roaring trade in snappers and groupers
cooked to order at outrageous fees, with a flourishing sideline in fresh fish sales to the neighborhood each
morning.

The "roaring" was quite literal. I threaded my way through a crush of burly giants and giantesses of all
degrees of nakedness, hairiness, age, proficiency, and inebriationтАФall eager to share their experiences
and plans in voices powered by scuba-deafened ears and Marcial's free drink, beneath which the
sound-system could scarcely be heard at full blast. (Marcial's only real expense lay in first-drink liquor so
strong that few could recall whether what they ultimately ate bore any resemblance to what they had
given him to cook.) Only a handful were sitting down yet, and the amount of gear underfoot and on the
walls would have stocked three sports shops. This was not mere exhibitionism; on an island chronically
short of washers, valves, and other spare parts the diver who lets his gear out of his sight is apt to find it
missing in some vital.

I paused to allow a young lady to complete her massage of the neck of a youth across the aisle who was
deep in talk with three others, and had time to notice the extraordinary number of heavy spear-guns
racked about. Oklahomans, I judged, or perhaps South Florida. But then I caught clipped New England
from the center group. Too bad; the killing mania seems to be spreading yearly, and the armament
growing ever more menacing and efficient. When I inspected their platters, however, I saw the usual
array of lavishly garnished lobsters and common fish. At least they had not yet discovered what to eat.

The mermaiden blocking me completed her taskтАФunthankedтАФ and I continued on my way in the little
inner sanctum Marcial keeps for his old clientele. As the heavy doors cut off the uproar, I saw that this
room was full tooтАФthree tables of dark-suited Mexican businessmen and a decorous family of eight, all
quietly intent on their plates. A lone customer sat at the small table by the kitchen door, leaving an empty
seat and a child's chair. He was a tall, slightly balding Anglo some years younger than I, in a very decent
sports jacket. I recalled having seen him about now and then on my banking and shopping trips to the
island.

Marcial telegraphed me a go-ahead nod as he passed through laden with more drinks, so I approached.

"Mind if I join you?"
He looked up from his stone-crab and gave me a slow, owlish smile.