JК
Crashlander :: Нивен Ларри
Страница: 40 из 199Any kind of fool might cause the puppeteer government to defend themselves in some drastic fashion, with power like that,» Ander said. «So we have to stop any passing ships from interfering with the fleet and guard their secret, too. Meanwhile, they haven't all left. There are business matters, loose ends being wrapped up.»
«I know. I had dealings with one of their agents myself.»
He perked up. «How did that come about?»
«I had a complaint about a General Products hull.»
«Again?»
FLATLANDER
The most beautiful girl dboard turned out to have a husband with habits so solitary that I didn't know about him until the second week. He was about five feet four and middle-aged, but he wore a hellflare tattoo on his shoulder, which meant he'd been on Kzin during the war thirty years back, which meant he'd been trained to kill adult kzinti with his bare hands, feet, elbows, knees, and whatnot. When we found out about each other, he very decently gave me a first warning and broke my arm to prove he meant it.
The arm still ached a day later, and every other woman on the Lensman was over two hundred years old. I drank alone. I stared glumly into the mirror behind the curving bar. The mirror stared glumly back.
«Hey. You from We Made It. What am I?»
He was two chairs down, and he was glaring. Without the beard he would have had a round, almost petulant face … I think. The beard, short and black and carefully shaped, made him look like a cross between Zeus and an angry bulldog. The glare went with the beard. His square fingers wrapped a large drinking bulb in a death grip. A broad belly matched broad shoulders to make him look massive rather than fat.
Obviously he was talking to me. I asked, «What do you mean, what are you?»
«Where am I from?»
«Earth.» It was obvious. The accent said Earth. So did the conservatively symmetrical beard. His breathing was unconsciously natural in the ship's standard atmosphere, and his build had been forged at one point zero gee.
«Then what am I?»
«A flatlander.»
The glare heat increased. He'd obviously reached the bar way ahead of me. «A flatlander! Damn it, everywhere I go I'm flatlander. Do you know how many hours I've spent in space?»
«No. Long enough to know how to use a drinking bulb.»
«Funny. Very funny. Everywhere in human space a flatlander is a schnook who never gets above the atmosphere. Everywhere but Earth. If you're from Earth, you're a flatlander all your life. For the last fifty years I've been running about in human space, and what am I? A flatlander.
«I know. I had dealings with one of their agents myself.»
He perked up. «How did that come about?»
«I had a complaint about a General Products hull.»
«Again?»
FLATLANDER
The most beautiful girl dboard turned out to have a husband with habits so solitary that I didn't know about him until the second week. He was about five feet four and middle-aged, but he wore a hellflare tattoo on his shoulder, which meant he'd been on Kzin during the war thirty years back, which meant he'd been trained to kill adult kzinti with his bare hands, feet, elbows, knees, and whatnot. When we found out about each other, he very decently gave me a first warning and broke my arm to prove he meant it.
The arm still ached a day later, and every other woman on the Lensman was over two hundred years old. I drank alone. I stared glumly into the mirror behind the curving bar. The mirror stared glumly back.
«Hey. You from We Made It. What am I?»
He was two chairs down, and he was glaring. Without the beard he would have had a round, almost petulant face … I think. The beard, short and black and carefully shaped, made him look like a cross between Zeus and an angry bulldog. The glare went with the beard. His square fingers wrapped a large drinking bulb in a death grip. A broad belly matched broad shoulders to make him look massive rather than fat.
Obviously he was talking to me. I asked, «What do you mean, what are you?»
«Where am I from?»
«Earth.» It was obvious. The accent said Earth. So did the conservatively symmetrical beard. His breathing was unconsciously natural in the ship's standard atmosphere, and his build had been forged at one point zero gee.
«Then what am I?»
«A flatlander.»
The glare heat increased. He'd obviously reached the bar way ahead of me. «A flatlander! Damn it, everywhere I go I'm flatlander. Do you know how many hours I've spent in space?»
«No. Long enough to know how to use a drinking bulb.»
«Funny. Very funny. Everywhere in human space a flatlander is a schnook who never gets above the atmosphere. Everywhere but Earth. If you're from Earth, you're a flatlander all your life. For the last fifty years I've been running about in human space, and what am I? A flatlander.