JК
Crashlander :: Нивен Ларри
Страница: 3 из 199Get Jeena. Go to Shasht. Get Outbound Enterprises to freeze you for transfer to Home, sign me in, too, and pay the extra to ship Jeena. I'll be there when I can.»
Her jaw set. Sharrol was a flat phobe, and the continent Shasht wasn't just halfway round the world; it was the surface. I couldn't guess whether she was strong enough to get through this. I said, «If you can't do it, leave word —»
«When can you join us?»
«If I'm not on the same ship, go to Carlos. I'll get to you soonest.»
«You'd better have one tanj of a good story for me when you do,» Sharrol said, and then a head came into view, reflected in the glass. With my head still turned away. I flicked off the phone, my back blocking the action, and wiggled out my pocket phone.
It was him. Square face, thin blond hair, jaw like a prey turde, muscles rippling under the shirt. He was puffing a little. Ander was born of Earth, and he'd kept a flatlander's wild taste in dress and appearance. Today his drawstring pants were a miracle of wriggling colored lines. He wore a tunic in solid colors, green and brown with a jagged black line across chest and back. Classical cartoon characters kept peeking over the black line, chattering to each other about what they saw, then dropping back. He wore a backpurse, disappointingly drab.
He was taking his time, looking puzzled but determined, coming right at me.
So I let him see me pocket my unused phone as I turned and stepped out of the booth and right into him. I yelped. «Aghh!»
«Sorry. Beowulf, how you've changed!» He looked me over, visibly shocked, blocking me in the booth.
I shied back, wimp intimidated by a street thug, a bit offended and a bit afraid. «Sorry, man, I didn't mean to nudge you.»
He stepped forward and took my hand in both of his, despite lack of encouragement, and pumped it and hung on. He bellowed over the crowd noise. «Ander Smittarasheed. We made two travelogue vids together. Beowulf, all I can say is you must have a hell of a tale to tell.»
He had no doubts: he knew me. I said, «Hide. Hell of a tale to hide, Ander.»
«Not anymore.»
I shouted, «Yeah. Right. Are you with anyone?»
«No, on my own.»
«Come watch the game with me. I think there's an empty seat next to mine.» There'd better be.
He was still staring. Whatever he'd known, whatever had brought him here, he hadn't expected what he was seeing.
I hugged that thought to me. He was seeing me for the first time in twelve years.
Her jaw set. Sharrol was a flat phobe, and the continent Shasht wasn't just halfway round the world; it was the surface. I couldn't guess whether she was strong enough to get through this. I said, «If you can't do it, leave word —»
«When can you join us?»
«If I'm not on the same ship, go to Carlos. I'll get to you soonest.»
«You'd better have one tanj of a good story for me when you do,» Sharrol said, and then a head came into view, reflected in the glass. With my head still turned away. I flicked off the phone, my back blocking the action, and wiggled out my pocket phone.
It was him. Square face, thin blond hair, jaw like a prey turde, muscles rippling under the shirt. He was puffing a little. Ander was born of Earth, and he'd kept a flatlander's wild taste in dress and appearance. Today his drawstring pants were a miracle of wriggling colored lines. He wore a tunic in solid colors, green and brown with a jagged black line across chest and back. Classical cartoon characters kept peeking over the black line, chattering to each other about what they saw, then dropping back. He wore a backpurse, disappointingly drab.
He was taking his time, looking puzzled but determined, coming right at me.
So I let him see me pocket my unused phone as I turned and stepped out of the booth and right into him. I yelped. «Aghh!»
«Sorry. Beowulf, how you've changed!» He looked me over, visibly shocked, blocking me in the booth.
I shied back, wimp intimidated by a street thug, a bit offended and a bit afraid. «Sorry, man, I didn't mean to nudge you.»
He stepped forward and took my hand in both of his, despite lack of encouragement, and pumped it and hung on. He bellowed over the crowd noise. «Ander Smittarasheed. We made two travelogue vids together. Beowulf, all I can say is you must have a hell of a tale to tell.»
He had no doubts: he knew me. I said, «Hide. Hell of a tale to hide, Ander.»
«Not anymore.»
I shouted, «Yeah. Right. Are you with anyone?»
«No, on my own.»
«Come watch the game with me. I think there's an empty seat next to mine.» There'd better be.
He was still staring. Whatever he'd known, whatever had brought him here, he hadn't expected what he was seeing.
I hugged that thought to me. He was seeing me for the first time in twelve years.