"Joan D. Vinge - Voices From the Dust" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vinge Joan D)

been purely a physical attraction, and abruptly short-circuited. Mitradati was an
Iranian: although Iran had used its oil money to catch up with the 20th Century
(before clean hydrogen fusion had made oil obsolete), she had dis-covered that
social progressтАФat least as far as Mitradati was concernedтАФhad not kept up with
technological progress. He was a believer in IranтАЩs old regime, who would have been
much happier in her presence, she suspected, if sheтАЩd been wearing a veil.

But once they reached Little Earth on Mars they had gone their separate ways,
on separate research projects; up until three months ago, when she had joined this
particular geolog-ical team, a team that Shiraz Mitradati was nominally in charge of.
Neither Elke nor Shailung seemed to feel the same irritation with Mitradati that she
did, and she had wondered whether it was all her own fault, her own outspokenness,
her own opinionationтАжDamn it! IтАЩm teaching at Harvard because I happen to
have something to say. It took two to make an argument. Shiraz had refused a
perfectly reasonable request to let her investigate her find more fully, and his growing
irrational hostility had nothing to do with тАШreasonтАЩ or тАШlogicтАЩ It was no wonder her
own conviction had hardened into an obsession; that even while she was awake the
need to go on with her search filled her mind. He had no right to stop her; why
should she let him stand in her way, she didnтАЩt have toтАФ

Petra blinked, shivering violently; found herself half-naked, in the act of getting
dressed. She stood for a moment staring down at the bulky red sweater clutched
between her hands in a death-grip, watched her hands begin to tremble. Then she
pulled the sweater roughly on over her head, fastened her pants, and sat down to put
on her worn sneakers. She could see the clock on the desk: almost 5:00. A quarter
of an hour left until dawn; now was the time, before anyone else was awake. She
couldnтАЩt afford to have anyone stop her nowтАФshe stood at the mirror, folding her
straight black hair into a knot at the back of her head, fastening it with a clip; moving
methodically now, her face frozen into placidity. Dark eyes stared back at her from
the mirror, her own eyes, screaming at her silently, What are you doing to me? She
shook her head at the caged image, тАЬOy, Gottenyu, PetraтАФтАЭ She picked up her
flashlight and left the room.

She walked silently down the dim hallway, knowing that the room partitions
were paper thin. She slipped into the dark stairwell midway along it, switched on her
flashlight and went down the steps into the storage area. She needed a vehicle, her
pressure suit, andтАФthe other thing she had to find. She moved cautiously among
piled crates and equip-ment, following a thin streamer of light through the dark room,
and through the blackness that clotted her brain. This was the right thing, the only
rational thing to do ... then why am I so afraid?

The room filled with light, an explosion against her senses. She cried out in
surprise and protest, turningтАФ

тАЬShiraz!тАЭ Squinting against the sudden brightness she pulled the figure into
focus. She raised her hand with the flashlight to shield her eyes, half threatening.
тАЬWhat are you doing here?тАЭ An accusation.

тАЬI might ask the same of you.тАЭ She thought there was a trace of sullenness in
his accented Oxford English.