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Crashlander :: Нивен Ларри
Страница: 171 из 199Milcenta but not Adelaide! Sharrol had been picked up alone. I'd been at least halfright: she'd escaped from Feather. I realized I was crying.
And — «No life gift.» That was the other side of it: if she sent a proper gift, the embarrassment of needing to be rescued at sea need never become public record. We'd drilled each other on such matters. «She must have been in bad shape.»
«Yes, if she didn't call You,» Wilhelmin said. «And she didn't go home either?»
I told Martin Graynor's story: «We sold our home. We were on one last cruise before boarding an iceliner. She could be anywhere by now, if she thought the wave killed me. I'll have to check.»
I did something about money first. There was nothing aboard Gullfish that could read Persial January Hebert's retina prints, but I could at least establish that money was there.
I tried to summon passenger records from the iceliner Zombie Queen. This was disallowed. I showed disappointment and some impatience; but of course they wouldn't be shown to Hebert. They'd be opened to Martin Wallace Graynor.
* * *
They taught me to sail.
Gullfish was built for sails, not for people. The floors weren't flat. Ropes lay all over every surface. The mast stood upright through the middle of the cabin. You didn't walk in, you climbed. There were no lift plates; you slept in an odd-shaped box small enough to let you brace yourself in storms.
I had to learn a peculiar slang, as if I were learning to fly a spacecraft, and for the same reason. If a sailor hears a yell, he has to know what is meant, instantly.
I was working hard and my body was adjusting to the shorter day. Sure I had insomnia; but nobody sleeps well on a small boat. The idea is to snap awake instantly, where any stimulus could mean trouble. The boat was giving my body time to adjust to Fafnir.
Once I passed a mirror, and froze. I barely knew myself.
That was all to the good. My skin was darkening and, despite sun block, would darken further. But when we landed, my hair had been cut to Fafnir styles. It had grown during four months in the 'doc. The 'doc had «cured» my depilation treatment: I had a beard too. When we reached civilization I would be far too conspicuous: a pink-eyed, pale-skinned man with long, wild white hair.
My hosts hadn't said anything about my appearance. It was easy to guess what they'd thought. They'd found a neurotic who sailed in search of his dead wife until his love of life left him entirely.
I went to Tor in some embarrassment and asked if they had anything like a styler aboard.
And — «No life gift.» That was the other side of it: if she sent a proper gift, the embarrassment of needing to be rescued at sea need never become public record. We'd drilled each other on such matters. «She must have been in bad shape.»
«Yes, if she didn't call You,» Wilhelmin said. «And she didn't go home either?»
I told Martin Graynor's story: «We sold our home. We were on one last cruise before boarding an iceliner. She could be anywhere by now, if she thought the wave killed me. I'll have to check.»
I did something about money first. There was nothing aboard Gullfish that could read Persial January Hebert's retina prints, but I could at least establish that money was there.
I tried to summon passenger records from the iceliner Zombie Queen. This was disallowed. I showed disappointment and some impatience; but of course they wouldn't be shown to Hebert. They'd be opened to Martin Wallace Graynor.
* * *
They taught me to sail.
Gullfish was built for sails, not for people. The floors weren't flat. Ropes lay all over every surface. The mast stood upright through the middle of the cabin. You didn't walk in, you climbed. There were no lift plates; you slept in an odd-shaped box small enough to let you brace yourself in storms.
I had to learn a peculiar slang, as if I were learning to fly a spacecraft, and for the same reason. If a sailor hears a yell, he has to know what is meant, instantly.
I was working hard and my body was adjusting to the shorter day. Sure I had insomnia; but nobody sleeps well on a small boat. The idea is to snap awake instantly, where any stimulus could mean trouble. The boat was giving my body time to adjust to Fafnir.
Once I passed a mirror, and froze. I barely knew myself.
That was all to the good. My skin was darkening and, despite sun block, would darken further. But when we landed, my hair had been cut to Fafnir styles. It had grown during four months in the 'doc. The 'doc had «cured» my depilation treatment: I had a beard too. When we reached civilization I would be far too conspicuous: a pink-eyed, pale-skinned man with long, wild white hair.
My hosts hadn't said anything about my appearance. It was easy to guess what they'd thought. They'd found a neurotic who sailed in search of his dead wife until his love of life left him entirely.
I went to Tor in some embarrassment and asked if they had anything like a styler aboard.