JК
Crashlander :: Нивен Ларри
Страница: 49 из 199It was using a hollow tentacle over its mouth to spray water on its back. I stared at that tentacle … and stared …
«Hey, look!» Sharrol called, pointing. «Bey's ears are turning red!»
I didn't forgive her till two that morning.
* * *
And I remember reaching over Sharrol to get a tabac stick and seeing her purse lying on her other things. I said, «How if I picked your pocket now?»
Orange and silver lips parted in a lazy smile. «I'm not wearing a pocket.»
«Would it be in good taste to sneak the money out of your purse?»
«Only if you could hide it on you.»
I found a small flat purse with four hundred stars in it and stuck it in my mouth.
She made me go through with it. Ever make love to a woman with a purse in your mouth? Unforgettable. Don't try it if you've got asthma.
I remember Sharrol. I remember smooth, warm blue skin, silver eyes with a wealth of expression, orange and silver hair in a swirling abstract pattern that nothing could mess up. It always sprang back. Her laugh was silver, too, when I gently extracted two handfuls of hair and tied them in a hard double knot, and when I gibbered and jumped up and down at the sight of her hair slowly untying itself like Medusa's locks. And her voice was a silver croon.
* * *
I remember the freeways.
They were the first thing that showed coming in on Earth. If we'd landed at night, it would have been the lighted cities, but of course we came in on the day side. Why else would a world have three spaceports? There were the freeways and autostradas and autobahns, strung in an all-enclosing net across the faces of the continents.
From a few miles up you still can't see the breaks. But they're there, where girders and pavement have collapsed. Only two superhighways are still kept in good repair. They are both on the same continent: the Pennsylvania Turnpike and the Santa Monica Freeway. The rest of the network is broken chaos.
It seems there are people who collect old groundcars and race them. Some are actually renovated machines, fifty to ninety percent replaced; others are handmade reproductions. On a perfectly flat surface they'll do fifty to ninety miles per hour.
I laughed when Elephant told me about them, but actually seeing them was different.
The rodders began to appear about dawn. They gathered around one end of the Santa Monica Freeway, the end that used to join the San Diego Freeway.
«Hey, look!» Sharrol called, pointing. «Bey's ears are turning red!»
I didn't forgive her till two that morning.
* * *
And I remember reaching over Sharrol to get a tabac stick and seeing her purse lying on her other things. I said, «How if I picked your pocket now?»
Orange and silver lips parted in a lazy smile. «I'm not wearing a pocket.»
«Would it be in good taste to sneak the money out of your purse?»
«Only if you could hide it on you.»
I found a small flat purse with four hundred stars in it and stuck it in my mouth.
She made me go through with it. Ever make love to a woman with a purse in your mouth? Unforgettable. Don't try it if you've got asthma.
I remember Sharrol. I remember smooth, warm blue skin, silver eyes with a wealth of expression, orange and silver hair in a swirling abstract pattern that nothing could mess up. It always sprang back. Her laugh was silver, too, when I gently extracted two handfuls of hair and tied them in a hard double knot, and when I gibbered and jumped up and down at the sight of her hair slowly untying itself like Medusa's locks. And her voice was a silver croon.
* * *
I remember the freeways.
They were the first thing that showed coming in on Earth. If we'd landed at night, it would have been the lighted cities, but of course we came in on the day side. Why else would a world have three spaceports? There were the freeways and autostradas and autobahns, strung in an all-enclosing net across the faces of the continents.
From a few miles up you still can't see the breaks. But they're there, where girders and pavement have collapsed. Only two superhighways are still kept in good repair. They are both on the same continent: the Pennsylvania Turnpike and the Santa Monica Freeway. The rest of the network is broken chaos.
It seems there are people who collect old groundcars and race them. Some are actually renovated machines, fifty to ninety percent replaced; others are handmade reproductions. On a perfectly flat surface they'll do fifty to ninety miles per hour.
I laughed when Elephant told me about them, but actually seeing them was different.
The rodders began to appear about dawn. They gathered around one end of the Santa Monica Freeway, the end that used to join the San Diego Freeway.