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

the rest up into the dunes behind the beach."
She smiles radiantly, and we go to it.
But it is a slow process; she exclaims with interest and curiosity over all my things, wet suit,
waterproof recorder, pump, repair kit, camera, lights, charging device, scuba gear, first-aid kit, my
lighterтАФI find she knows fire, which her people accomplish by twirling hardwood sticksтАФand all, down
to the binoculars, which charm her, and the harpoons, which turn her very sober.
"You kill much."
"Only for food, like you. Or to save my life."
"But this is so big."
"Well, I might be attacked by something big, like the crab. You killed it, you know. Without claws it
will die of starvation."
"Oh, no! It will eat algae. And the claws will grow again. We use them like that to pull building
supplies." Image of a big crab with a harness hooked on its carapace, hauling a laden travois. "When they
get dangerous, we chase them back to sea."
"Ah."
Some perverse honesty compels me to show her my waterproof laser, which I carry in my swim
trunks.
"This is for use if I am attacked on land." I demonstrate on a nearby shell. She runs to examine the
burn.
"It would do this to flesh?"
"Yes."
"Why, when I came in your boat, you might have done this to me?"
Blue, blue eyes gaze at me, horrified.
"Not unless you attacked me so viciously that my life was in danger."
"Oh, but could you not feel the warmth?" She flutters her hand from herself to me and back. I think.
YesтАФfrom the first moment, I could. Damn it.
"Well! You are strange." Shaking her head, she resumes lugging a battery up the dune. She is very
strong, I notice.
We have found a splendid hollow in the high dunes in which to ride out the storm. Somehow nothing
more is said about her staying far, far away.
Finally, we stake my big tarpaulin over the heap of belongings and bring up the boat. I rope it upside
down to three stout plant roots. The scrub "trees" growing here resemble giant beach gorse and have
great hold-fast roots.
By now, the air is so humid and strange that our voices seem to reverberate on the still beach. And
we can see a level line of white cloud rising up at us from the horizon, growing against the upper wind.
Under it is a tinge of darkness, the first sight of the squall-line. And in the far distance beyond towers pale
cumulus. It looks like a whole frontal system coming on us. Will the weather change?
"You may grow cold here, Kamir."
"Oh, I am used to that."
"You could put on my wetsuit." (What, and leave me naked? I am mad.)
"No, when we cover our skins, we grow too thirsty."
Aha, I was right about the osmotic protection in the skin. Perfect adaptation.
"Well, if it turns cold, we can always make a fire. Let's gather some of these heavy stalks and stems."
When all is ready, we sit on the dune-top, swinging our legs and eating our respective provisions,
watching the squall line rise until it divides the visible world. On our side all is still and sunny and hot; we
are caught in an eerie stasis. A kind of water animal I haven't seen before paddles about in the bay,
followed by a line of small ones.
"Jurros," Kamir observes. "They are very tame. Only the big fish bother them."
I wonder about those "big fish." Are they shark-like? But in response to my query Kamir only laughs.
"Oh, you pop them on the nose. They run away."