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

"Wonders." He smiles.
Next he is fascinated by my teeth. I show him all I can, and he in turn displays the ridges of hard white
cartilage I had taken for teeth.
And so we pass the evening, chatting like amiable strangers, while the golden sun turns red and sinks,
silhouetting the fronds of the papyrus. We exchange names late, as is customary with telepaths. His is
Kamir. He has a little trouble with mine, Tom Jared. His people, he tells me, are three days' travel away,
to the east. Why is he alone? That one is difficult; I can only guess that he means he is exploring for
pleasure. "It is the custom."
Somehow I cannot bring myself to take up the question of sex, even though I know he is curious, too;
once or twice I catch a tendril of his thought lingering around my swim trunks.
But through all our talk, I am amazed by what can only be called its courtesy. Its civility. Never do I
strike a hostile or "primitive" reaction. It is a little like being questioned by a bright, well-brought-up child.
Innocence, curiosity, those are neotenicтАФchildlikeтАФtraits. Neotenia has been a feature of Human
development. Kamir's race is neotenic, too. But beyond that, he is indefinably but unmistakably civilized.
Whatever may turn out to be his technological level, I am communing with a civilized mind.
It grows darker, and a myriad unknown stars come out. I grow sleepy, despite the interest of the
occasion. Kamir notices it.
"Now you desire sleep."
"Yes."
"Good. We sleep." And he pulls up the back flap of his loincloth to make a pad for his head and
simply lies back peacefully. I wriggle round in my sleep shelter and do the same.
"Good night, sleep well, Kamir."
"Sleep well, 'Om Jhared." Then suddenly he adds a question I sense as deadly serious: "Will more like
you come?"
I am glad to be able to reassure him. "No, unless you ask. Oh, maybe once a small party to record
your world, if you do not object."
"Why should we?"
And so we both relax, the alien on his warm white sand, me on my galactic dinghy, and the little crabs
and lizards and other creatures of the night come out and sing or fiddle or chirrup their immemorial
chorus. I remember thinking as I drift off that they are a good warning system; only when all is still do
they sing.
???
When I waken in full sunlight, all is calm and still. Too still; the sea is like glass. I check my barometer.
Yes, it has started downward.
Kamir is nowhere in sight. I feel a sense of loss. What, has he abandoned interest in me to return to
his watery world? I hope not.
AndтАФgood!тАФin a moment or two there's a splash out on the reef. Kamir surfaces. He comes
quickly back to shore, towing something. When I go to meet him, I see that it is a silky purse-net, full of
flapping fish.
Too preoccupied to greet me, he hurries up the beach and kneels over his catch, his beautiful face
tense. He begins quickly decapitating them, finishing the last one before cleaning any. Then he sits back,
sighing relievedly.
"Their pain and confusion are hard to bear," he tells me. Then, smiling, "Morning greetings,
"Omjhared!"
"Greetings." I know what he means. I once made the error of going too near a meat-killing place; it
had taken me a fortnight to recover.
"I wish we could eat some other way. We all do," Kamir tells me, working on the fish. "But plants are
not enough."
I agree, looking over his net. An elegant little artifact, clearly handmade. His is not a machine culture.
"I think there is a storm coming."