"James Tiptree Jr. - Your Haploid Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiptree James Jr)

apologetically. "The sickness also has been hard." "But I thought you didn't
have-" said Pax, and glared at me for the jab. "We do not," said
Ovancha. "They do, because of their way of life. They have a bad way of life,
bad and silly. They do not live long. We try to help them, but-" He made a
graceful gesture and then tooted melodiously on the roller's horn. We got out.
Shrill orange flowers were blowing across the cobbles. The smell was
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remarkable. From somewhere a flute blared brilliantly and stopped. Across the
square a door opened and a figure limped toward us. It was an old man, robed
in blue. As he came up I saw he was very delicate-or rather, Ovancha suddenly
became an oversized rubber truncheon. I stared; something about the old man
was sending strongly to my hunch-sense. I had missed Ovancha's
introduction. We began to walk down a side street. It, too, was empty. There
was an overpowering feel of hidden eyes watching, ears listening. A gate
snicked shut like a clamshell. The houses were interspersed with tents,
pavilions, shanties, dark recesses which rustled. We came to a courtyard
covered with a torn green canopy. Under it a dozen frail old people reclined
silently against the curb. Their faces were turned away. I could see their
skeleton hips and ribs under the bright, soiled cloaks. Was this the sickness
of which Ovancha had warned Pax? But he had led us right to it. Suddenly a
side door creaked and out into the silent scene there burst a flock of
children. The old ones roused, held out shaking arms, smiling and murmuring.
Voices were calling urgently from the doorway, but the little ones ran
wild-incredibly tiny and active, fluttering gay silks, shouting high and
sweet. Then a robed figure ran out and herded them inside and the old ones
sank back. Ovancha was making a strange sound. I saw his mouth working in a
greenish face as he marshaled us back toward the roller. But Pax had other
ideas. He strode smartly on around a comer. Ovancha threw me a distraught look
and went after him. I followed with the limping old man. We proceeded thus
around a second corner, and I was about to shout after Pax when a flurry of
silk came shooting out of the wall beside me. I felt my hand clutched by
something tiny and electric. An impossibly small girl was running beside me,
her face turned up to mine. Our eyes met, jokingly. Something was being pushed
into my fist. Her head went down-soft, fierce lips pressed my hand-and then
she was gone. Twenty years of discipline strove to open my fingers. The old
man was gazing straight ahead. We came up to Pax and Ovancha in the square. I
saw Pax's back was rigid. As we said our farewells he gripped both the old
man's hands in his. Ovancha seemed pale. As the roller started, the unseen
flute pealed out again and was joined by a drum. A trumpet answered from
across the square. We drove away in a skirl of sound. "They are fond of
music," I said inanely. My hand felt on fire, and Pax's eyes were
smoldering. "Yes," said Ovancha, and added with an effort, "some do not call
it music. It is very harsh, very wild. But I find ... I find it has some
charm." Pax snorted. "In my home," I said, "we have also an animal like your
Rupo which we use for huni-ing. They have a very strong character and think
only of hunting. Once my friends and I took a certain Rupo on a hunting trip
and, as is also your custom, we drank wine with our lunch and sometimes did