"Ian Watson - The People on the Precipice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watson Ian)

unlucky name. 'Bounce' is a risky name, too, in my opinion."
This remark annoyed Bounce. "Just you try to invade my bower, Tumbler,
and _you'll_ get bounced -- right off the cliff. That'll teach you what my
name's all about."
"Can I please tell my story?" asked Smear.
And so he did.
He regaled us with the hilarious adventures of Ma and Pa Flat in their
flatworld; and what preposterous antics those were, to be sure! Still, his
story seemed to have a couple of sly morals buried in it. Compared with the
imaginary flat-people we were fortunate indeed -- being gifted with all sorts
of mobility denied to Ma and Pa Flat. In other words, things might be a lot
worse. But also, Ma and Pa at least tried to make the very best of a bad job
-- did we always do likewise?
By the time Smear finished it was black dark, and we had long since
tightened our tethers for the night. Obviously Smear would be spending the
time of darkness on our ledge.
Soon after, I heard suspicious scraping sounds, suggesting that Smear
was recklessly edging his way along to reach Bounce's bower. (He had
positioned himself close to her.) Subsequent smothered giggles and gasps
indicated that he had succeeded: a surmise proven true in the morning when
light brightened and we saw Bounce and Smear clinging together asleep in her
harness of vines.
Smear quickly roused himself and departed upward, his horny toes in all
the proper cracks, his left hand holding a guidevine, his right hand reaching
up in approved style for well-remembered, reliable holds. You could never
wholly trust guidevines with your total weight. They might snap or rip their
roots free. Then you would be taking the long trip down through empty air.
****
We breakfasted on the leftovers from yesterday's harvest of berries and
lichen, rockworms and beetles.
The pearly void was bright; the day was warm. Below, the precipice
descended forever. Above, it rose forever. To left and right, it stretched out
unendingly. Occasionally, thin silver water-licks oozed from the rock,
dribbling down till the droplets bounced into space. Here and there were still
some surviving pastures of moss and fungus and fleshier plants; though by now
our appetites had stripped most decent rock-fields bare, adding to the area of
naturally occurring barrens. Soon we would all have to migrate -- just as we
had already migrated at least a hundred times since I was born. A planning
conference was slated for today high up on Badbelay's ledge. Tumbler as our
chief would attend.
As our tribe clung to the rockface considering which way to forage, a
scream from above made us tighten our holds. We tried to flatten ourselves
completely -- just like Smear's mythical beings. A young lad plunged past, an
arm's length away. I could have reached out to touch him, if I was foolish
enough.
"Butterfingers!" shrieked Fallen in sympathy. The lad probably never
heard her.
The falling body diminished until it was a mere speck deep below.
Bounce surprised us by saying, "Next time we migrate we ought to head
upwards and _keep on_ migrating upwards for a whole lifetime, to see what