"James Tiptree Jr - The Color of Neanderthal Eyes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiptree James Jr)

The alien eats more crabmeat, considering this.
Then comes another, more complex question I don't get. Foggy flashing images of Pforzheimer
opening and shutting his mouth, blurry pictures of what might be planets of different sizes and colorsтАж
"many worldsтАж" I am roused to make the effort to probe for the alien's verbal speech, and try a guess.
"You say, the other-one-like-me said there are many worlds, many peoples?"
Enthusiastic assent. I've hit it.
And from then on, we converse in an irreproducible mix of verbal and transmitted speech, unmatched
for fluency and ease. I report it here as close as purely spoken speech can come.
"Yes, that's true," I tell the alien. "There are many races. Some stay on their worlds, others travel
muchтАФlike me."
The alien smiles broadly, the blue eyes in what I realize is a very beautiful face bright with pleasure.
He snuggles down into a comfortable position in the bow, reaching for my rejected crab claw.
"Show me! Show me all!"
He is evidently prepared for a long session of entertainment. But the sunset is casting great golden
rays across the sky* tinting the flocks of little island-born cumuli and generating lavender shadows on the
blue-green sea. I must prepare for the night.
"Too many to show all. Too many to know all. I will show you one, others later. The night comes."
"Yes, I know how you do in the night. You take this"тАФhe slaps the boat with the knifeтАФ"onto land,
and sleep. I have watched you two days." There is a smile of mischief in his blue eyes.
What? But I only spotted him this noon. However, I recall some vague impressions of sentience
nearby that had caused me momentary disquiet. So that's what they wereтАФemanations of my new
acquaintance, watching!
"Good. Here is one other world." I send a nice detailed view of the fiery planet of the Comenor, with
a few of its highly intelligent natives hopping about or resting alertly, tri-pedal, on their large,
kangaroo-like tails. The Comenor had been one of the races I trained on.
"Ah! And they think, they speak? Do they make music?" The alien raises its voice in a provocative
little chant.
"YesтАж yesтАж let me rememberтАФ" I try to render one of the Comenor's pastoral airs.
"HmmтАж"
As he sits there reflecting, with the golden light playing on his flaming hair, I realize I may be mistaken.
I have been calling him "he" because of his breastless body, flat belly, and slim hips, and perhaps also
because he is apparently alone in the open sea. But that face could belong to a beautiful woman. And he
is not Human; there is a strange fold running down the throat, and the pupils of his eyes are
hourglass-shaped. Nor is he even mammalian; no nipples mar the pale green curves of his pectoral
muscles, although he has a small navel. Perhaps "he" is female, or epicene, perhaps it is the custom of his
race for females to wander far alone. Whatever, my new friend is enchanting to look at; even his
accoutrements of knife, belt and loincloth are charmingly carved and decorated.
"Wonderful," he says at length. "And you have seen this and more?"
"Yes."
"I would like to do so."
"It might be possible, someday. Maybe. But now I must go ashore." I send him an image of himself
getting out of the boat so I can drive the bow up the beach.
"Yes, I know." Again the hint of mischief in the smile. He pops the remains of the crab claw in his belt,
and in one graceful flash is overboard. As he sails past I glimpse that strange fold on his neck opening to
show a feathery purple lining. Gills! So he is truly aquatic. No wonder I didn't see him until he decided to
show.
I start the motor and examine the beach. As often here, a small stream meanders to the bay in its
center, marked by clumps of the tall, plumy papyrus-like plants. I'll have fresh water to top off my
canteens.
I choose the larger expanse of beach and head for its center, where I'll have maximum warning if