"Robert F. Young - The First Sweet Sleep of Night" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

surf of the music. In the sweet sea of sound her shyness had left her, and she had almost become a
woman.
And then she had felt the abrupt coldness of her breasts, heard the first intimations of the laughter.
She had looked down then, and seen the broken strap, and her nakedness, and felt the first searing blush
of her shame. She had run across the gleaming floor, through the dancers and the mounting laughter, to
the stairs, and wildly up the stairs to the cool virginal sanctuary of her roomтАФ

MILLICENT was still crying when she slipped out of her clothes. She was crying when she mended
the strap, crying when she slipped into the dress and felt its soft coolness against her flesh. She was
crying when she left the tent and ran into the hills.
The returning launch passed like a great dark bird above her, but she did not see it. Her shoes were
ugly mannish things and she kicked them off and felt the soft moist grass beneath her bare feet. She ran
on, feeling the dress against her body and the wind upon her, inhaling the fragrance that the wind carried,
running swiftly beneath the sharp bright stars. And something deep within her broke and her tears
stopped and the cool wind dried her eyes.
Behind her someone was shouting her name, but she paid no attention. Her eyes were absorbed with
star-washed valleys and pale slopes, eager for a glimpse of the familiar willowy figure of the man she
loved.
She overtook him finally. He was breasting a high hill and she was in the valley just below. "Bruce,"
she cried. "Bruce!"
He heard her this time, and turned. When he saw her standing in the starlight he ran stumbling down
the hill. She collapsed in his arms. "I ran away," she said. "I ran away and I never stopped running. I'm so
sorry, darling."
There was the sound of pounding footsteps. Dr. Vestor was wearing an oxygen mask and he was
tremendously excited. He raised the mask briefly when he came up to them.
"No time for questions now," he gasped. "Just put these on and follow me. We're going back to Main
Base!"
They donned the masks he handed them. Then, hand in hand, they followed him back over the
dwindling hills to the launch.

Anthropologists, as a rule, do not interfere with the pattern of a culture. But there are
exceptions to every rule, and I think all of us were relieved to see the demolition crew board the
launch this morning and head southward for the Flower Islands.
I have just returned from sick bay and am happy to record that Miss Mitchell's appendectomy
was a success. On his last visit to her, Dr. Vestor optimistically left her a copy of Pyczykietvicz's
excellent Atypical Pantheistic Patterns of Certain Camelopardalis Cultures and she had the volume
propped before her when I came in, reading it with every indication of absorption. When she
closed it, however, I detected the telltale yellow edge of a confession comic protruding from the
pages and I am beginning to suspect that her affection for Dr. Vestor, genuine though it may be,
will never quite extend itself to include Dr. Vestor's metier.
He proposed to her, she told me, while they were passing over the Flower Islands on their way
back to Main Base, and it was that particular incident, I think, although the proposal itself was
unquestionably a true manifestation of his suppressed desire, that activated the concatenation of
ratiocination that led ultimately to his analysis of the culture, and, of course, to his immediate
return to the southern land mass for Dr. Hanley and myself.
The wedding, incidentally, will be a double one, and is scheduled to take place as soon as the
demolition crew returns. Bruce calls it the "Flower Island Wedding" and says that I am his
"Flower Island Bride." He's always saying quaint things like that.
Shortly, we shall be leaving Fomalhaut 4 for Terra. I shall be relieved in a way. I realize that
such an emotion is atypical of me, but the nordic culture here has begun to pall on me. It too has