"Robert F. Young - Prisoners of Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

and infiltrated with flowers; birds blurred from little tree to little tree.
He had made up his mind on Heaven that there weren't going to be any more performances, but
there had been many many more. He thought of them grimly, and thought too of the interludes between
when Karen had rationalized her brief periods of conventional behavior by writing her paradoxical
poetry. And for the hundredth time he wondered why he bothered, why he didn't let her go, let her
become whatever it was that she wanted to become, let her, in her own wordsтАФ

тАФBreak free from all the gaudy glittering things
that constitute the circumstance of man,
and become the essence of not-wanting . . .

The forest, typical of all Karen forests, ended abruptly, and a Karen-type hill raised its lovely green
brow into the blue sky. On top of the hill the white buildings of the Mission gleamed in the afternoon
sunlight. Larry climbed the hill slowly, wading in the tall grass. When he reached the outlying buildings and
saw the new-turned grave in the little burial lot he knew, without knowing why or how he knew, that the
basic plot of the play Karen had finally varied, and that the curtain this time, had fallen irrevocably.

THE MISSION Mother came out of the chapel while Larry was standing by the grave. She walked
over and stood beside him. She was old and thin, with faded eyes set deep beneath sharp dark brows.
She wore the traditional golden cape about her shoulders, and the sacred U-235 Emblem, symbol of the
Galactic Church, glittered on her forehead.
"She was your wife?" she asked.
"Yes," Larry said. There was a vast emptiness building up beyond the Misseros d'n Gaedo horizon,
threatening to move in over the forests and the blue lakes.
"She mentioned you several times. She seemed to be expecting you."
"How did she die?"
"She could have stayed here, but she wouldn't." The Mission Mother sniffed. "She could have
worked for her food and her lodging. But she was too lazy. All she wanted to do was wander in the
forest, to dreamтАФ"
"Never mind all that," Larry said. "How did she die?"
"She died of starvation. She lived in the village when she first came. Then, when her credits were
gone, she lived in the forest. Naturally the natives refused to feed her when she could no longer pay." The
Mission Mother looked at Larry closely. "You certainly can't blame them for that, can you?"
"No, of course not," Larry said. The emptiness had begun to move in. He felt the first cold breath of
it.
"She didn't even blame them herself. Just before she died I heard her say, 'Father forgive themтАФ' I
don't know why she asked her father to forgive them though."
Larry shook his head. He looked down at the grave again. There were fresh forest flowers covering
it. "The flowers are beautiful," he said. He looked at the Mission Mother. "Did you put them there?"
Two raddled spots of red appeared on the Mission Mother's thin cheeks. The U-235 atom glittered
harshly. "Yes . . . It isn't customary butтАФ" She dropped her eyes, stared at the grave. "I don't know why
she wouldn't stay at the Mission," she said. "She could have worked for her food. She wouldn't have had
to work hard. I don't know why she wouldn't. I don't know why she was so fascinated by the forestтАФ"
"Karen wasn't like us," Larry said. He looked over the Mission Mother's head at the metallic sphere
of the chapel, at the big atom-emblem poised above it like the hard bright heart of a star. He wondered if
Karen minded being buried in what she would have called a heathen churchyard. She had never believed
in the Galactic Church. She had belonged to some silly religious sect that dated from before the dark
ages of Earth, a dying sect that worshipped an impossible God who advocated throwing away credits.
He decided that the religious aspect of the churchyard wasn't important. What was important was the
green hill on which it stood, the matchless blue sky above it, and the forest and the lakes rolling away into