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skeptically.  That the principles of quantum physics can be applied to sociology? That you change
things social situations just bylooking at them, not even by participating in them? Like what was
that ancient experiment? peering into a box and seeing whether there's a dead cat there or not? I've
heard that your discipline isn't considered mainstream, either isn't it often described as a kind of faith,
based on an inadequate comprehension of old ideas about quantum principles?
By then, I was used to such challenges, and had learned to mask my annoyance behind a semblance of
objectivity. Rettino was clearly trying to goad me.  You're correct in your initial description, I told him,
loftily.  We do indeed hold that the very act of observation alters a social context certainly in the case
of trained observers such as myself. This is why one must be extremely careful in undertaking the sort of
research that I do. I did not add that it was why I tended not to socialize overmuch with the crew; I
feared that it might offend them.
So when the navigational systems of the ship went down, leaving myself and the little lander temporarily
stranded on the planet below, I was inclined to regard my predicament as being in the light of an
unexpected gift rather than as a curse.
 Rettino says it'll take a week, Ellen Eng told me apologetically over the array. I could see her long prim
face veiled with a haze of static, like an interstellar nun.
 But he can definitely fix it? I was just checking, not yet worried.
 It isn't difficult, apparently, just complicated and time-consuming. He says there's no way wewon't be
able to get you offworld. All you have to do is sit tight.
Now, in one of my brief returns to consciousness, reading these words in my handpad journal, I
am aware of their irony. Ellen and Rettino were right. The navigational array was easily fixed,
though it took longer than expected. But I no longer think that rescue is an option.
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Three: Genreth
Irrys, irritatingly, saw portents for her lover's return everywhere: in the sparks that spat from the sea-coal
blaze, in the trail of a falling star, in the shadows in the snow. At last, Mithra, oursatahrach, got fed up
and told her to stop imagining things.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
 If it's a proper portent, you'll know it when you see it.
 But what would a proper portentbe?  Irrys cried, gripping the arms of the chair so hard that her nails
slit the material. Thesatahrach clucked with disapproval.
 Proper portent? A sign in the air, or in blood on the lintel. A spirit, or ghosts, which attach themselves
to trouble like river-leeches. Andwill you watch what you're doing with your hands! You don't see
Genreth fretting and fidgeting over some worthless young man, do you? Why can't you be more like your
sister? I don't understand how two from the same litter can be so different!
 Because Genreth's got a heart like a winter stone, that's why, Irrys snapped, and ran out of the room.
She was, we agreed, taking it hard.
A day later, however, a proper portent finally showed up. And to my surprise, it took the form of the
ghost I had seen on the hunting path.
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Four: Daniel Ottrey
I've found them!my excited journal entry reads. It might be more accurate to say that one of them found
me. I had gone out into the snow to break the ice down at the spring and replenish the water supply on
the lander. With Ellen and Rettino assuring me on the hour that the repairs were going well, that there was
no need for worry, and that they'd have me up and out in the next few days, I was prepared to make the
most of my adventure. I wrote up my notes, checked the service mechanism of the lander, and then
headed out with the canister.
I met the woman on the path. At first, I thought that I was imagining things, as though I had conjured her
out of air and shadows: the black coat, her pale face and paler hair, eyes like chips of ice. She was
carrying a bag and a single feather clung to her lips. She opened her mouth as if to speak, and I saw
blood on her teeth like a child's fairy story: black as a raven's wing, and white as snow. Red as blood.
She looked at me as though I presented some kind of personal affront, stepped past me with disdain, and
was gone down the track.
I began to call after her, but belatedly remembered my training. I needed to set the observational [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]