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

imperceptible gesture of drinkingтАФ"but controlado. And he has also negociosтАФI do not know all, but
some are important for his country. тАФSo you really like the crab?" he concluded in his normal voice.
"We are honored."

My companion was emerging from the rather dubious regions that held the excusado.

Marcial's recommendation was good enough for me. Only one puzzle remained: what was his country?
As we both refused dulce and coffee, I suggested that he might care to stroll down to the marina with me
and watch the sunset.

"Good thought."

We paid up Marcial's outrageous bills and made our way through the exterior Bedlam, carrying our gear.
One of the customers was brandishing his spear-gun as he protested his bill. Marcial seemed to have lost
all his English except the words "Police," and cooler heads were attempting to calm the irate one. "All in a
night's work," my companion commented as we emerged into a blaze of golden light.

The marina to our left was a simple L-shaped muelle, or pier, still used by everything from dinghies to
commercial fishermen and baby yachts. It will be a pity when and if the town decides to separate the
sports tourist-trade from the more interesting working craft. As we walked out toward the pier in the last
spectacular color of the tropic sunset over the mainland, the rigging lights of a cruise ship standing out in
the channel came on, a fairyland illusion over the all-too-dreary reality.

"They'll be dumping and cleaning out their used bunkers tonight," my companion said, slurring a trifle
now. He had a congenial walking gait, long-strided but leisurely. I had the impression that his
drunkenness had returned slightly; perhaps the fresh air. "Damn crime."

"I couldn't agree more," I told him. "I remember when we used to start snorkeling and scuba diving right
off the shore hereтАФyou could almost wade out to untouched reefs. And nowтАФ"

There was no need to look; one could smell it. The effluvia of half a dozen hotels and the town behind ran
out of pipes that were barely covered at low tide; on a few parrot fish, who can stand anything, remained
by the hotel-side restaurants to feed on the crusts the tourists threw them from their tables. And only the
very ignorant would try outтАФonceтАФthe dilapidated Sunfish and water-ski renters who plied the small
stretches of beach between hotels.

We sat down on one of the near benches to watch a commercial trawler haul net. I had been for some
time aware that my companion, while of largely British culture, was not completely Caucasian. There was
a minute softness to the voice, a something not quite dusky about hair and fingernailsтАФnot so much as to
be what in my youth was called "A touch of tarbrush," but nothing that originated in Yorkshire, either.
Nor was it the obvious Hispano-Indian. I recollected Marcial's earlier speech and enlightenment came.

"Would I be correct in taking Marcial's allusions to mean that you are a British HonduranтАФforgive me, I
mean a Belizeian, or Belizan?"

"Nothing to forgive, old chap. We haven't existed long enough to get our adjectives straight."

"May god send you do." I was referring to the hungry maws of Guatemala and Honduras, the little
country's big neighbors, who had the worst of intentions toward her. "I happen to be quite a fan of your
country. I had some small dealings there after independence which involved getting all my worldly goods