"Robert F. Young - Tents of Kedar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

bend. By now, a chirurgeon will already have been assigned to your case."
 He did not need the information now; he had Sefira to guide him. It occurred to him that he hadn't
asked her why she was going to the clinic. He did so.
"I work there," she said.
"Oh."
"And you?"
He saw no reason to hide the truth. "I have Meiskin's disease. It's not contagious," he added quickly.
"It is not incurable either."
'Why do you say that?"
"Because you act like a doomed man."
He regarded her silently for some time; then he drank the rest of his coffee and went below deck to
wash up.
When he emerged from the lavatory he saw that Sefira had come down to the galley. 'What would
you wish to eat?" she asked.
"Nothing. I prefer to face my chirurgeon with an empty stomach and a clear mind."
"You will not find her that formidable."
'Do many colonials visit the clinic?"
"You will be the first."
He was surprised. "I find that hard to believe."
"You should not. It is very difficult for a man, even when he is dying, to seek help from a member of
a race he considers, despite incontrovertible evidence to the contrary, to be different from and therefore
inferior to his own. Even you, who are the first, have no doubt pinned your hopes upon the chirurgeons'
putative magic rather than upon their knowledge of medicine."
"But they're witch doctors!"
"If you like. But they are witch doctors with medical degrees. Port D'argent is not the only spaceport
on Silver Dollar."
"But they go into trances. They тАФ"
"It is unfortunate so many wrong words have been applied to them."
"But they themselves applied the Ebononese word they're known by. And the only English word that
fits it dates back to medieval times on Earth when wounded knights were cared for by ignorant
noblewoman employing God knows what kind of techniques and medicines!"
"The Ebononese chirurgeons are neither ignorant nor noble. It is unfortunate that a more realistic
translation could not have been made."
"I've even heard it said," Eastcliff said sardonically, "that they wear masks."
"You will see."

Deja vu racked him again, and he left the galley abruptly and returned to the deck. The banks were
little more than half a mile apart now, and the current had again doubled in strength. The launch lumbered
upstream like a pregnant water buffalo, its engine, revved up by the A.P. to meet the challenge, klonking
rhythmically. He disliked traveling by air, and he had chosen the launch with comfort in mind rather than
speed. He hadn't really cared whether he ever reached the clinic, hadn't really believed that the potions of
the chirurgeons would be any more effective against Meiskin's schizomycetes than the powerful
antibiotics prescribed by his internist. He did not tell his family he had the disease, and when he set out
for the clinic he said only that he was going fishing. His internist, when Eastcliff had visited him last, had
given him three months. That was ten weeks ago. The launch, in all probability, would turn out to be his
funeral barge.

The river continued to narrow but no abrupt bend appeared. Sefira had come back on deck, and
Eastcliff could have asked her how much farther they had yet to go. However, he did not. She stood
leaning against the starboard rail, gazing at the bank. Once, she waved to a group of bush-blacks walking