"Robin Wilson - To the Vector Belong..." - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Robin)

listeners out in some command center, probably a van over in Alameda, something
to think about. It is the kind of thing that over the years has prompted comments
from his superiors about attitude.

тАЬShoot.тАЭ

тАЬIf they hadnтАЩt of cut it off, what in hell would the sixth little piggy do?тАЭ

Al looks blankly at his miniature sea of circles for a moment. Then, тАЬOh!
Yeah! тАШThis little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home.тАЩтАЬ

тАЬYes,тАЭ says Lindstrom, тАЬand the last one, the fifth one . . . ?тАЭ

тАЬRight,тАЭ says Al, тАЬand me with a sixth finger that doesnтАЩt fit the rhyme.тАЭ And
then in a high pitched version of his mechanical chant of memorization, he sings,
тАЬWee, wee, wee, I canтАЩt find my way home.тАЭ He pauses. тАЬWherever that is. Jake,
what happens next? I mean to me?тАЭ

тАЬDonтАЩt know.тАЭ

There is, Lindstrom notes, a tilt to the brow over the alienтАЩs left eye, the blue
one, that he believes connotes wry amusement at this minor imperfection in his
amazing adaptation to a strange world. This guy, thinks Lindstrom, is well schooled,
like Japan is prosperous. But why?

On their way out they pause in the menтАЩs room and Lindstrom relieves himself
of the afternoonтАЩs drink. It is an awkward maneuver to perform one-handed, but his
left wrist is now cuffed to AlтАЩs right. Although they had matched consumption drink
for drink, Al has no need for relief, nor does he show any sign of intoxication.
Lindstrom wonders idly if this results from alien physiology or simply the third of a
century difference in their ages. Time is also a great estranger, he thinks.
Twenty-five-year-old Jacob Lindstrom, the Berkeley dropout going under cover for
the Justice Department task force on the 1965 Viola Liuzzo murder down in Selma,
is just about as alien to the retiring lake Lindstrom as the guy on the other end of the
cuffs, who continues to chatter, eyeing the menтАЩs room fixtures with curiosity.
Strange versions of familiar things fascinate: round doorknobs in the United States;
handles in Europe. What in hell do urinals look like where Al comes from?

Not everyone has fled the building for the police lines; in one of the booths
behind them, an exuberant flatulence sounds. In another, a Hispanic voice says:
тАЬiHey, que?тАЭ The perpetrator responds in a strained voice, тАЬiEsta musica!тАЭ and both
occupants laugh in throaty gasps. Al laughs too. Spanish must be one of his
languages, thinks Lindstrom. He shakes himself and thinks of the sheer weirdness .of
the day, his participation in an event of historical importanceтАФthe first alien
contact!тАФacted out in a seedy Oakland bar and set to the music of elimination.

He zips, rinses his hand, and leads his prisoner out to the little Ford electric
with the red INS logo parked in the bar plug-in. The Chief Federal Marshal has
gambled that. a long unstructured and recorded debriefing will get them maximum
information on the alien; they were in the saloon a long time. The car battery had