[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Karnak, or Tinhorn. Peo-
ple sail the seas, but the winds are so even that it's tame. We have no
safaris, no treks across sandy deserts ... are there even any deserts?" He
waits, trying to provoke a reaction.
Marta Farell stays within the tight shell of her profession-
alism, within the barriers that say "Do not touch!" to Martel, even without
his mental probing.
The quiet hum of the tie receiver is the only sound in the control center.
Martel scans the monitors, the feed time remaining, before shifting his eyes
back to Farell.
"The unknown-beaches bit is a good long-term subject.
The settings have to be perfect," she comments, as if no time had passed since
his last question.
Martel nods, understanding what she is driving at. Off-
worlders are treated to exotic fax scenes every day. So his beach story will
have to be not only spectacular, but artistic as well, as artistry takes time.
If it works, the royalties will be substantial, and deserved.
"You're right about the human-interest angle, too," adds
Farell, "but you've sealed the problem."
"Of course," Martel slips in, "there are always the gods."
"Not if you value your continued existence. And whether you do or not,
remember that the gods may just decide to wipe out anyone who approves or
contributes to a slot they didn't like. So forget it. Now."
Martel ignores the edge in Farell's voice, at the same time wondering.
Jumpy about the gods. Why? What has she done?. Another
hidden story like Rathe's?
He debates a gentle probe, then backs off. What right do you have to dig into
people's thoughts? No better than these so-called gods if you do.
"What about something me gods favor?" he pushes.
"Anything concerned with the gods is dangerous!"
"No. There have to be things they like."
"Name one."
"What about the postulant communities? Not on candidates or demigods or
priests or priestesses," he adds hurriedly, "but just on the community life,
habits, what have you."
"I don't know, Martel."
"There's nothing in any of the back indexes on them, and there's nothing
remotely resembling the subject on any of the closed lists."
"Look. You don't really know what you're talking about.
Hasn't your lady friend, or someone, convinced you that meddling with the gods
is dangerous? Especially dangerous for someone like you."
Here we go again. Someone like you.
"Would you care to explain that?" Two black glittermotes pop into view above
his left shoulder as he stands abruptly.
Farell does not change position, but seems to withdraw against the storage
lockers. Shrinks further into herself, and does not speak.
"Everyone seems to think I'm different. And every time I
Page 182
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
question something, people back away. But they still don't answer. Except to
tell me not to question, not to challenge. So answer that, Farell. If I'm more
than the simple esper I think
I am, what makes me so? Why does everyone think so? And what difference does
it make? If the so-called gods are so flamed powerful and if I'm such a threat
.. . Flame! It doesn't make sense. If I'm a threat, then they're not really
that powerful. And if they're so almighty, then I'm no real threat So answer
that, Farell!"
Mattel can feel the thin edge within him, the one that sep-
arates him from the darkness beneath, blurring as the now-
familiar tide of inner darkness rises.
Suddenly he can see the two women that Marta Farell is.
The first is a small, frightened girl, protected by a shell of professional
competence. The second, not nearly so clear hi focus, might better be called
... but Mattel can find no words, no concepts. For the bidden Farell has a
trace of wan-
tonness, a trace of tomboyishness, an abiding warmth ...
... and in the confusion, the dark side of his own self ebbs, and he wonders
why he is standing and shouting, and why Marta Farell is merely waiting. And
he laughs.
"For an instant, I really got carried away. I'm sorry." He takes one step
toward her, stops as he sees her shrink away.
Instead, he turns and reseats himself in the console chair.
"Guess I got a little overwrought, a little carried away.
Don't really understand why."
She shifts her weight, finally faces him head on.
"Because you don't understand Them, and you won't re-
ally face what you are. And no one else can afford to help you out The costs
could be far too high. I know. I know.
That's why I agreed you could work here. But even I
didn't " her voice breaks off, but Mattel catches the last words as unspoken
thoughts, expect this.
Mattel shakes his head. Every answer creates more ques-
tions. He decides to return to the original discussion.
"What about a slot on the postulant communities?"
"Do you really understand how dangerous it is?" Her quiet voice has a touch of
resignation, desperation.
"No. But I'd like to try."
'That's obvious. If it goes right, you gain nothing. And if it goes wrong, a
lot of people will suffer besides you."
Farell flips her thin legs and hips off the low ledge and alights lightly in
front of the console. "But I doubt that will stop you. And, at mis point, I'm
not going to try to save you from yourself any longer." Her voice drops.
"Martel, please be careful."
She is out the port before he can answer.
He rechecks the feed time, sets himself for the break and the return to local
control.
What was that all about? Careful about what?
He shakes his head again.
A story on the postulant communities can give him a better insight into the
gods, into how much real control they have, into their powers, and into the
fears that everyone seems to have buried within.
We'll see, he promises.
That's right, the answer comes, but Martel cannot say whether the second
thought is his or another's.
XVI
Martel peers through the peephole, although he does not need to. Gates is busy
with the equipment in the off-line studio.
Page 183
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Marta Farell is on the board in the prime studio. While the prime studio
portal is locked and that peephole closed, the mental static announces her
presence.
Martel shakes his head and tramps back down the narrow corridor to the lounge.
He wants to run through some of the older I.D.'s, either to get some idea for
new ones or to see if any appeal to him for his own programs.
"You could use the fax console in the lounge." His words are not addressed to
anyone, since Hollie is busy in the front area, and the other two faxers,
Dlores and Morgan, are out working on their own documentary projects.
The lounge console is serviceable, but without projecting the images
full-length into the room, he will not be able to determine the technical
quality of the cubes he wants to re-
view.
Still... what choice is there?
His decision made, he pulls the index cube and places it in the console. He
can use the screen for the first part, at least.
About half the cubes are listed as technically deficient
Four have been deleted from the records, and only a faint hesitation marks
their former existence. Since the index is merely a record, he wonders why all
reference to those four was removed.
From the entire cube, only six seem interesting from the three-line
descriptions. Martel notes the key numbers in the console memory and returns
the index to storage.
"You work too hard. It won't do a bit of good."
Hollie Devero stands inside the portal, wearing a mint-
green one-piece coverall. She is too thin to carry off an outfit that severe,
and the brightness of her eyes, reflecting all too obviously her cernadine
habit, accentuates her angularity and the plainness of the coverall. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl ocenkijessi.opx.pl
Karnak, or Tinhorn. Peo-
ple sail the seas, but the winds are so even that it's tame. We have no
safaris, no treks across sandy deserts ... are there even any deserts?" He
waits, trying to provoke a reaction.
Marta Farell stays within the tight shell of her profession-
alism, within the barriers that say "Do not touch!" to Martel, even without
his mental probing.
The quiet hum of the tie receiver is the only sound in the control center.
Martel scans the monitors, the feed time remaining, before shifting his eyes
back to Farell.
"The unknown-beaches bit is a good long-term subject.
The settings have to be perfect," she comments, as if no time had passed since
his last question.
Martel nods, understanding what she is driving at. Off-
worlders are treated to exotic fax scenes every day. So his beach story will
have to be not only spectacular, but artistic as well, as artistry takes time.
If it works, the royalties will be substantial, and deserved.
"You're right about the human-interest angle, too," adds
Farell, "but you've sealed the problem."
"Of course," Martel slips in, "there are always the gods."
"Not if you value your continued existence. And whether you do or not,
remember that the gods may just decide to wipe out anyone who approves or
contributes to a slot they didn't like. So forget it. Now."
Martel ignores the edge in Farell's voice, at the same time wondering.
Jumpy about the gods. Why? What has she done?. Another
hidden story like Rathe's?
He debates a gentle probe, then backs off. What right do you have to dig into
people's thoughts? No better than these so-called gods if you do.
"What about something me gods favor?" he pushes.
"Anything concerned with the gods is dangerous!"
"No. There have to be things they like."
"Name one."
"What about the postulant communities? Not on candidates or demigods or
priests or priestesses," he adds hurriedly, "but just on the community life,
habits, what have you."
"I don't know, Martel."
"There's nothing in any of the back indexes on them, and there's nothing
remotely resembling the subject on any of the closed lists."
"Look. You don't really know what you're talking about.
Hasn't your lady friend, or someone, convinced you that meddling with the gods
is dangerous? Especially dangerous for someone like you."
Here we go again. Someone like you.
"Would you care to explain that?" Two black glittermotes pop into view above
his left shoulder as he stands abruptly.
Farell does not change position, but seems to withdraw against the storage
lockers. Shrinks further into herself, and does not speak.
"Everyone seems to think I'm different. And every time I
Page 182
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
question something, people back away. But they still don't answer. Except to
tell me not to question, not to challenge. So answer that, Farell. If I'm more
than the simple esper I think
I am, what makes me so? Why does everyone think so? And what difference does
it make? If the so-called gods are so flamed powerful and if I'm such a threat
.. . Flame! It doesn't make sense. If I'm a threat, then they're not really
that powerful. And if they're so almighty, then I'm no real threat So answer
that, Farell!"
Mattel can feel the thin edge within him, the one that sep-
arates him from the darkness beneath, blurring as the now-
familiar tide of inner darkness rises.
Suddenly he can see the two women that Marta Farell is.
The first is a small, frightened girl, protected by a shell of professional
competence. The second, not nearly so clear hi focus, might better be called
... but Mattel can find no words, no concepts. For the bidden Farell has a
trace of wan-
tonness, a trace of tomboyishness, an abiding warmth ...
... and in the confusion, the dark side of his own self ebbs, and he wonders
why he is standing and shouting, and why Marta Farell is merely waiting. And
he laughs.
"For an instant, I really got carried away. I'm sorry." He takes one step
toward her, stops as he sees her shrink away.
Instead, he turns and reseats himself in the console chair.
"Guess I got a little overwrought, a little carried away.
Don't really understand why."
She shifts her weight, finally faces him head on.
"Because you don't understand Them, and you won't re-
ally face what you are. And no one else can afford to help you out The costs
could be far too high. I know. I know.
That's why I agreed you could work here. But even I
didn't " her voice breaks off, but Mattel catches the last words as unspoken
thoughts, expect this.
Mattel shakes his head. Every answer creates more ques-
tions. He decides to return to the original discussion.
"What about a slot on the postulant communities?"
"Do you really understand how dangerous it is?" Her quiet voice has a touch of
resignation, desperation.
"No. But I'd like to try."
'That's obvious. If it goes right, you gain nothing. And if it goes wrong, a
lot of people will suffer besides you."
Farell flips her thin legs and hips off the low ledge and alights lightly in
front of the console. "But I doubt that will stop you. And, at mis point, I'm
not going to try to save you from yourself any longer." Her voice drops.
"Martel, please be careful."
She is out the port before he can answer.
He rechecks the feed time, sets himself for the break and the return to local
control.
What was that all about? Careful about what?
He shakes his head again.
A story on the postulant communities can give him a better insight into the
gods, into how much real control they have, into their powers, and into the
fears that everyone seems to have buried within.
We'll see, he promises.
That's right, the answer comes, but Martel cannot say whether the second
thought is his or another's.
XVI
Martel peers through the peephole, although he does not need to. Gates is busy
with the equipment in the off-line studio.
Page 183
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Marta Farell is on the board in the prime studio. While the prime studio
portal is locked and that peephole closed, the mental static announces her
presence.
Martel shakes his head and tramps back down the narrow corridor to the lounge.
He wants to run through some of the older I.D.'s, either to get some idea for
new ones or to see if any appeal to him for his own programs.
"You could use the fax console in the lounge." His words are not addressed to
anyone, since Hollie is busy in the front area, and the other two faxers,
Dlores and Morgan, are out working on their own documentary projects.
The lounge console is serviceable, but without projecting the images
full-length into the room, he will not be able to determine the technical
quality of the cubes he wants to re-
view.
Still... what choice is there?
His decision made, he pulls the index cube and places it in the console. He
can use the screen for the first part, at least.
About half the cubes are listed as technically deficient
Four have been deleted from the records, and only a faint hesitation marks
their former existence. Since the index is merely a record, he wonders why all
reference to those four was removed.
From the entire cube, only six seem interesting from the three-line
descriptions. Martel notes the key numbers in the console memory and returns
the index to storage.
"You work too hard. It won't do a bit of good."
Hollie Devero stands inside the portal, wearing a mint-
green one-piece coverall. She is too thin to carry off an outfit that severe,
and the brightness of her eyes, reflecting all too obviously her cernadine
habit, accentuates her angularity and the plainness of the coverall. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]