"Peter Watts - Bulk Food" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watts Peter)

harpoon set up on the gangway.

***

Two kilometers out, one of the Chosen hears a blow and alerts
the others. The pilgrims again fall expectantly silent, undaunted by
the fact that the first three times turned out to be the first mate
blowing his nose.
To be honest, nobody here has ever heard a real orca blow, not
first-hand. No civilized human being would ever patronize a
whalejail, and whale-watching tours have been banned for yearsтАФ
they said it was a harassment issue, but everyone knows it was just
Bob Finch and his aquarium industry cronies out to eliminate the
competition.
Bulk Food 9

The passengers huddle quietly in the fog, straining to hear above
Dipnet's diesel cough.
Whoosh.
"There! I knew it!" And sure enough, something rolls across a
fog-free patch of surface a few meters to port. "There! See?"
Whoosh. Whoosh.
Two more to starboard. Leviathan has come to greet them; her
very breath seems to dispel the fog. A pale patch of tissue-paper
sun lightens the sky.
There is much rejoicing. One or two people close their eyes,
choosing to commune with the orcas telepathically; no truly
enlightened soul would resort to crass, earth-raping technology to
make contact. Several others bring out dog-eared editions of
Bigg's Guide to the Genealogy and Natural History of Killer
Whales. Anna Marie has told them they'll be meeting L1, a
southern Resident pod. Hungry eyes alternately scan the pages and
the rolling black flanks for telltale nicks and markings.
"Look, is that L55? See that pointy bit on the saddle patch?"
"No, it's L2. Of course it's L2."
One of the telepaths speaks up. "You shouldn't call them by
their Human names. They might find it offensive."
Chastened silence fall over the acolytes. After a moment,
someone clears her throat. "Er, what should we call them then?"
The telepath looks about quickly. "Um, this one," she points to
the fin nearest the boat, "tells me she's called, um, Sister
Stargazer."
The others ooh in unison. Their hands fly to the crystals nestled
beneath their rain ponchos.
"Six-foot dorsal," mutters the first mate. "Male."
No one notices. "Oh, look at that big one! I think that's the
Matriarch!"
"Are you sure this is even L-Pod?" someone else asks
uncertainly. тАЬThere aren't very many of themтАФisn't L1 supposed
to be a big pod? And I thought I sawтАж that is, wasnтАЩt that big one