"Robert F. Young - Goddess in Granite" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

F&SF readers have hitherto known Robert F. Young only as the author of
sensitive short stories; but like any talented writer (and Mr. Young seems to
me one of the most talented newcomers of the past several years), he has more
than one string to his bow. Here is a longer and more vigorous Young storyтАФa
powerful and moving tale of the sport (or the art) of mountain-climbing in the
interstellar future, of a man whose explorations imperiled not only his life
but his soul, and of a mysteriously landscaped Virgin which is as compellingly
visual a concept as you're apt to have read in a long time.

Goddess in Granite
by ROBERT F. YOUNG

When he reached the upper ridge of the forearm, Marten stopped to rest. The
climb had not winded him but the chin was still miles away, and he wanted to
conserve as much of his strength as possible for the final ascent to the face.
He looked back the way he had comeтАФdown the slope of the tapered forearm
ridge to the mile-wide slab of the hand; down to the granite giantess-fingers
protruding like sculptured promontories into the water. He saw his rented
inboard bobbing in the blue bay between forefinger and thumb, and, beyond the
bay, the shimmering waste of the southern sea.
He shrugged his pack into a more comfortable position and checked the
climbing equipment attached to his web beltтАФhis piton pistol in its
self-locking holster, his extra clips of piton cartridges, the airtight packet
that contained his oxygen tablets, his canteen. Satisfied, he drank sparingly
from the canteen and replaced it in its refrigerated case. Then he lit a
cigarette and blew smoke at the morning sky.
The sky was a deep, cloudless blue, and Alpha Virginis beat brightly down
from the blueness, shedding its warmth and brilliance on the gynecomorphous
mountain range known as the Virgin.
She lay upon her back, her blue lakes of eyes gazing eternally upward. From
his vantage point on her forearm, Marten had a good view of the mountains of
her breasts. He looked at them contemplatively. They towered perhaps 8,000
feet above the chest-plateau, but since the plateau itself was a good 10,000
feet above sea level, their true height exceeded 18,000 feet. However, Marten
wasnтАЩt discouraged. It wasnтАЩt the mountains that he wanted.
Presently he dropped his eyes from their snow-capped crests and resumed his
trek. The granite ridge rose for a while, then slanted downward, widening
gradually into the rounded reaches of the upper arm. He had an excellent view
of the VirginтАЩs head now, though he wasnтАЩt high enough to see her profile. The
11,000-foot cliff of her cheek was awesome at this range, and her hair was
revealed for what it really wasтАФa vast forest spilling riotously down to the
lowlands, spreading out around her massive shoulders almost to the sea. It was
green now. In autumn it would be brown, then gold; in winter, black.
Centuries of rainfall and wind had not perturbed the graceful contours of
the upper arm. It was like walking along a lofty promenade. Marten made good
time. Still, it was nearly noon before he reached the shoulder-slope, and he
realized that he had badly underestimated the VirginтАЩs vastness.
The elements had been less kind to the shoulder-slope, and he had to go
slower, picking his way between shallow gullies, avoiding cracks and crevices.
In places the granite gave way to other varieties of igneous rock, but the