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Crashlander :: Нивен Ларри
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«Well,» I said, and hesitated, and, «I think I was attackedby something like that. But huge. And it wasn't around Shasht, it was where you picked me up.»
«Jan, you should report it.»
«Wil, I can't. I was fast asleep and half dead of cold, lost at sea at midnight. I woke up under water. Something was squeezing my chest and back. I got my knife out and slashed. Slashed something rubbery. It pulled apart. It pulled my jacket apart. If it had ripped the shoulder floats I'd still be down there. But I never saw a thing.»
Thus are legends born.
* * *
Booty Island is several islands merged. I counted eight peaks coming in; there must have been more. We had been sailing for twelve days.
Buildings sat on each of the lamplighter nests. They looked like government buildings or museums. No two were alike. Houses were scattered across the flatlands between. A mile or so of shopping center ran like a suspension bridge between two peaks. On Earth this would have been a park. Here, a center of civilization.
A line of transfer booths in the mall bore the familiar flickering Pelton logo. They were all big cargo booths, and old. I didn't instantly see the significance.
We stopped in a hotel and used a coin caller. The system read my retina prints: Persial January Hebert, sure enough. Wil and Tor waited while I moved some money, collected some cash and a transfer booth card, and registered for a room. I tried again for records of Milcenta Adelaide Graynor. Sharrol's rescue was still there. Nothing for Feather.
Wil said, «Jan, she may have been recovering from a head injury. See if she's tried to find you.»
I couldn't be Mart Graynor while Wil and Tor were watching. The net registered no messages for Jan Hebert. Feather didn't know that name. Sharrol did; but Sharrol thought I was dead.
Or maybe she was crazy, incapacitated. With Tor and Wil watching I tried two worst-cases.
First: executions. A public 'doc can cure most varieties of madness. Madness is curable, therefore voluntary. A capital crime committed during a period of madness has carried the death penalty for seven hundred years, on Earth and on every world I knew.
It was true on Fafnir too. But Sharrol had not been executed for any random homicide, and neither, worse luck, had Feather.
Next: There are still centers for the study of madness. The best known is on Jinx. On Earth there are several, plus one secret branch of the ARM. There was only one mental institution to serve all of Fafnir, and that seemed to be half empty. Neither Feather's nor Sharrol's retina prints showed on the records.
«Well,» I said, and hesitated, and, «I think I was attackedby something like that. But huge. And it wasn't around Shasht, it was where you picked me up.»
«Jan, you should report it.»
«Wil, I can't. I was fast asleep and half dead of cold, lost at sea at midnight. I woke up under water. Something was squeezing my chest and back. I got my knife out and slashed. Slashed something rubbery. It pulled apart. It pulled my jacket apart. If it had ripped the shoulder floats I'd still be down there. But I never saw a thing.»
Thus are legends born.
* * *
Booty Island is several islands merged. I counted eight peaks coming in; there must have been more. We had been sailing for twelve days.
Buildings sat on each of the lamplighter nests. They looked like government buildings or museums. No two were alike. Houses were scattered across the flatlands between. A mile or so of shopping center ran like a suspension bridge between two peaks. On Earth this would have been a park. Here, a center of civilization.
A line of transfer booths in the mall bore the familiar flickering Pelton logo. They were all big cargo booths, and old. I didn't instantly see the significance.
We stopped in a hotel and used a coin caller. The system read my retina prints: Persial January Hebert, sure enough. Wil and Tor waited while I moved some money, collected some cash and a transfer booth card, and registered for a room. I tried again for records of Milcenta Adelaide Graynor. Sharrol's rescue was still there. Nothing for Feather.
Wil said, «Jan, she may have been recovering from a head injury. See if she's tried to find you.»
I couldn't be Mart Graynor while Wil and Tor were watching. The net registered no messages for Jan Hebert. Feather didn't know that name. Sharrol did; but Sharrol thought I was dead.
Or maybe she was crazy, incapacitated. With Tor and Wil watching I tried two worst-cases.
First: executions. A public 'doc can cure most varieties of madness. Madness is curable, therefore voluntary. A capital crime committed during a period of madness has carried the death penalty for seven hundred years, on Earth and on every world I knew.
It was true on Fafnir too. But Sharrol had not been executed for any random homicide, and neither, worse luck, had Feather.
Next: There are still centers for the study of madness. The best known is on Jinx. On Earth there are several, plus one secret branch of the ARM. There was only one mental institution to serve all of Fafnir, and that seemed to be half empty. Neither Feather's nor Sharrol's retina prints showed on the records.