"Roger Zelazny - The Doors of His Face The Lamps of His Mouth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

berth. She did not say "good day," though, which I thought showed breeding
as well as determination, in reply to my chuckle.

Later that night Mike and I stoked our pipes in Malvern's cabin. The
winds were shuffling waves, and a steady pattering of rain and hail overhead
turned the deck into a tin roof.

"Nasty," suggested Malvern.

I nodded. After two bourbons the room had become a familiar woodcut,
with its mahogany furnishings (which I had transported from Earth long ago
on a whim) and the dark walls, the seasoned face of Malvern, and the
perpetually puzzled expression of Dabis set between the big pools of shadow
that lay behind chairs and splashed in cornets, all cast by the tiny table
light and seen through a glass, brownly.



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"Glad I'm in here."

"What's it like underneath on a night like this?"

I puffed, thinking of my light cutting through the insides of a black
diamond, shaken slightly. The meteor-dart of a suddenly illuminated fish,
the swaying of grotesque ferns, like nebulae-shadow, then green, then
gone--swam in a moment through my mind. I guess it's like a spaceship would
feel, if a spaceship could feel, crossing between worlds--and quiet,
uncannily, preternaturally quiet; and peaceful as sleep.

"Dark," I said, "and not real choppy below a few fathoms."

"Another eight hours and we shove off," commented Mike.

"Ten, twelve days, we should be there," noted Malvern.

"What do you think Ikky's doing?"

"Sleeping on the bottom with Mrs. Ikky if he has any brains."

"He hasn't. I've seen ANR's skeletal extrapolation from the bones that
have washed up--"

"Hasn't everyone?"

"...Fully fleshed, he'd be over a hundred meters long. That right,
Carl?"